No Rest for the Wicked
by penelope lemon
Summary: Harold is seeing ghosts, Lucy can't escape her past, Charles fights to make things right again, and James is caught in the middle of it all.
1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

 **April 6th 1912**

The sun that filtered through the tall windows of the White Star Line office glowed against the wooden floorboards and made my head pound something fierce. I tried putting on a brave face for the secretary behind the desk, pretending like I hadn't spent the better half of the night finishing off my stash of bourbon. It would be a poor first impression to arrive on a new ship with a raging headache, but then again, I never was good at first impressions. Perhaps being hungover would be an improvement to the usual. I watched as the woman behind the desk shuffled through my paperwork, my summons to the Southampton office laying on top of the pile. She handed me a paper and asked for my mark.

"You'll meet the rest of the stewardesses and the matron at berth forty four," the secretary said as I signed my name on the crew agreement. I added my age, address, place of birth, and the likes in the respective columns.

I nodded my head and handed the paper back to her. Reaching down to grab the one trunk I had with me, I turned to leave the building. I heard the secretary call after me, "And you best hurry! The rest of the stewardesses checked in almost an hour ago!"

If the light inside the office was bad, the light outside reflecting off the Solent was merciless. I blinked a few times, trying to ease my headache but failing miserably. I adjusted my trunk and hurried off down the port to find the berth that _Titanic_ was docked at.

I wasn't particularly fond of alcohol, in fact, I rarely drank. But the night before had me reeling from some newly discovered information, and the call for something a little stronger than water was too great. I dug out the bottle of bourbon from the bottom of my dresser and after the first sip it was a quick decline. Within the hour I was tipsy and had completely forgotten the name that I had seen scrawled on the _Titanic_ crew and passenger list; the name I had to read four times before I actually believed what I was seeing.

Unfortunately, the feeling of alcohol induced amnesia did not last. By the morning I was groggy, in a foul mood thanks to my headache, and faint with apprehension at the fact that Harold Lowe would be serving as an officer on _Titanic_. As his name drifted into my mind, so did his face, and my stomach knotted for an entirely different reason other than the aftermath of poor drinking choices. The dry toast and marmalade from this morning sat precariously on the edge of my stomach, and it wasn't a question of _if_ I'll be sick, but _when_.

I took a few deep breaths of sea air to calm myself before I brinked on hysteria. I had to find the other stewardesses first, then I could deal with the trouble that was awaiting me on the decks of _Titanic_.

I shifted the trunk in my hand again. I typically packed light for the sea voyages, seeing as the only clothing I really needed was my uniform, but on this particular trip I had packed everything I owned. It wasn't much, but I still struggled with the clasps this morning trying to shut the trunk. After _Titanic_ docked in New York, I would not be on the return voyage to Southampton. This was probably the first and only time in my life that I wished I didn't own so many things.

I finally found my way to berth forty four, per the secretary's instructions. By the cluster of twenty or so women gathered there, I assumed I was in the right place, and very late. There was one stout woman with mousy blonde hair that was addressing the group—Cissie our matron for the trip. She held herself like a woman who was not to be trifled with, lecturing about the pristine character of the White Star Line company. Trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, I slipped into the back of the group.

"Fancy meeting you here," said the young woman I was standing next to, "I was certain you were going to sleep in and miss the board."

I glance at her. Violet and I had found each other a few years prior on the _Olympic_. I was working a short stint as a stewardess for a few months, but she had remained with the ship for a few years. By default or design, I wasn't sure, we had become fast friends on the few voyages we shared. After a dozen or so runs, I made the switch to _Oceanic_ , and Violet and I lost touch for a while. When we discovered we would both be serving on _Titanic_ for the maiden voyage, we were stupid with glee.

"If only I was so lucky," I murmured to Violet. She snorted a laugh, trying not to let the matron hear. In front of us Mary Sloan turned around and glared at us. I glared back, scrunching my nose in the most unladylike way I could muster and sneering at her. Frowning, Mary turned back to listen to the matron, clearly offended by like lack of decorum. Violet was overcome with a new fit of giggles.

Someone needed to give Mary a swift kick to her rear side. If I was I man I would do it myself.

In the few days before we boarded _Titanic_ I became acquainted with most of the other stewardesses. About half of us shared the boarding house next to the dock, everyone filtering in at different times over the course of the previous week. I had arrived four days before the actual summons to Southampton. Violet arrived five and the rest followed at different intervals.

I came to know each of them in the days leading up to the boarding of _Titanic_ , at least as well as I could in such a short amount of time.

Annie Robinson had a child back in Hampshire and said she lost a toe in an unfortunate accident with feral cat and a rusted bicycle. I have yet to know if it was the cat or the bicycle that took her toe.

Mabel Bennett had ten siblings and the shrillest laugh I've ever heard. It's the kind that makes you laugh along whether you intend to or not.

Mary Sloan had the uncanny ability to pick out the least graceful woman in a group and brandish her incompetence at every possible moment. That woman was me.

With the exclusion of Violet, Mary, and a few others, most of the stewardesses were almost twice my age. They were kind enough, but we had next to nothing in common and we never really made it past civil conversation with each other. The real delight came from Violet occupying the room across the hall from mine at the boarding house. We spent the last few nights staying up into ungodly hours, chatting about our lives since the _Olympic_ and the new possibilities _Titanic_ had in store for us. It felt so good reconnecting with an old friend.

Violet was a devout Catholic. I never cared much for religion, but Violet's faith and goodness turned even the staunchest atheist into God fearing men. She was morally devoted, which was why I was completely shocked when she showed me the crew and passenger list she snatched out of the matrons room the previous night. I wasn't Catholic or anything, but I was certain that stealing was one of Gods _'I'd rather you not lest I smite thee with hellfire'_ commandments.

We sat on my bed reading over the list of names, first to see if there was anyone famous we knew that would be crossing on _Titanic_. Three years prior, Gertie Millar held a first class ticket on the _Medic._ I silently cursed the stewardess who was assigned to her cabin, because I would have given anything to see the theater star up close. Most of the first class passengers on _Titanic_ were businessmen Violet and I had little interest in. We went through the crew list next, wondering if we knew any of the other employees. There were a few names I recognized from previous voyages, like a steward I had befriended on the _Oceanic_ , and a scullion who always snuck an extra piece of shortbread for me on the _Medic._ When Violet went over the officers on board, my blood ran cold and I snatched up at list as the name of Harold Lowe was read aloud. I practically threw Violet out of my room, then proceeded to get myself piss poor drunk and stare at that list for the remainder of the night.

"Are you going to tell me what exactly got into you last night?" Violet whispered as if reading my thoughts. Her voice wasn't hard or insinuating, she was just being curious.

I looked at her. She was a few inches shorter than me, but the list of women who rival my height is sparse, so that isn't saying much. She was pretty, with bright eyes and a soft face. She has an inviting persona, one that makes her effortlessly approachable. Though no matter how much I liked Violet, I could never completely confide in her.

"I just wasn't feeling myself," I finally replied.

"Nerves?"

I nodded and silently begged her not to push the questions anymore. She didn't and I was grateful.

I found it hard to pay much attention to Cissie, and instead I took to gazing around Southampton port. I heard this lecture a dozen times with every new ship. The details change from time to time but the gist of it remains the same; stewardesses represent the refined details of the company, and as such we must do our best to make the voyage as comfortable as possible for our passengers.

So on and son on…

My gaze drifted to a ship in the dry dock across the way that was undergoing cleaning and repairs. A workman hung from the makeshift scaffolding, welding a facture crack along the stern of the ship. Sparks flew from his torch, falling like little stars. He paused, lifted his welding mask to wipe is brow, and then started again. I took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of salt and burning oil that surrounded me, comforted by the familiar scents.

Though I would never admit it out loud, I loved being a stewardess. The exhausting hours, piles of laundry, ludicrous demands and thinning tips were all made worth it by the chance to spend half my life at sea. I never thought I would be one to fall for the oceans endless abyss, but the more time I spent among the seagulls instead of the socialites, the more I grew to love it. As I let my mind mull over thoughts about the sea, a note of bitter sweetness gnawed at my heart as I was reminded that this was my last crossing. I didn't want it to end, but I'd reached a point of desperation where I had no other option but to let it go. The idea of never walking an empty promenade deck to see the stars made me wistful and I hated it. I hated that I'd become so attached to something that had brought so much misery to my life, I hated that I was stuck in this state of nostalgia when there are a thousand other things that should be occupying my mind, and I absolutely hated that in a weeks' time all of this would come to an end.

I sighed and reached up to rub by temples with my fingers, frustrated that I had gone and worked myself up like I did. The pounding in my head seemed to worsen, and I didn't think that was possible.

Cissie finished her speech with a promise that so long as we didn't cause her trouble, she wouldn't cause us trouble.

I suppress a snort. Me cause trouble? The absurdity of it.

We collected our things again, and I'm very aware of the fact that I had the largest trunk. I prayed that Mary would keep her mouth shut because the only person that knew I was going to stay in America was Charles. I wasn't at all eager to explain my cowardly flee to the States to the women I would be abandoning on the return voyage. I was just glad I wouldn't have to see their faces, or feel their wrath, when they were informed they'd be short a victualing crew member returning to England.

We turned towards the gangplank that jutted out from the bow of the ship to the berth and marched up it, Cissie leading the way and the rest of us following like her helpless ducklings.

I took a moment to let my eyes slowly wander over the new super structure that was now the largest moving object built by the hand of man. It really was a beauty of a ship. The fresh paint and clean lines elongated the broadside of the ship, giving the illusion that it stretched from horizon to horizon. The bow seemed to puff up out of the water, like the ship knew it was being boasted about and couldn't help but be a bit prideful. I didn't blame it. The top decks stacked in clean, precise lines and the funnels lay lazily on top, ready to smoke like the giant cigarettes they appeared to be. I smiled as I passed under the shadow of the ship. If this was going to be my last cross Atlantic voyage, then at least it was going to be on the most progressive ocean liner of the time.

Cissie took us up the folding gangplank to the forecastle deck. We all searched the deck, taking in everything _Titanic_ had to offer. We had five days to memorize every inch of the ship and calculate the fastest routes from the first class cabins to the Pursers Office to the galley to the mail room. There was no time to waste and already the stewardesses gazed around the deck attentively as Cissie talked.

I found myself doing the same but for an entirely different reason.

My eyes immediately went to the bridge. I saw two officers talking on the port wing and my heart fluttered in my chest. I was filled with so much anxiety that I'm worried I'll lose my breakfast all over the newly polished deck. I haven't the slightest idea what I will do when I see Harry; I was torn between slapping him as hard as I could, or flinging my arms around his neck and never letting go for fear I might lose him again. I squinted into the brilliant sunlight to try and make out the faces of the officers. One is definitely a young man, blonde, and my height. The other is dark haired and stocky in stature, not at all like the lean figure I remember of Harry. I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. There was no sign of him yet. If I was lucky, there had been a mistake, or a shuffle, and there would be no Harold Lowe on this crossing. I was at ease with that thought, even though I knew there were still four other officers to be seen, and I settled with it. Figure out my assigned cabins, get settled, and then worry about the other officers. If I took it one step at a time, I might be able to prepare myself better for the inevitable.

I turned to find Cissie and the other stewardesses about halfway down the forecastle. I'd fallen behind, too preoccupied with discerning the faces of the officers to notice the stewardesses moving on. I hoisted my trunk and went after them, falling in step with Violet at the back of the group.

"Nothing like a man in a uniform is here?" Violet said once I caught up to her. She had noticed me staring at the officers. If only I was looking out of interest instead of dread.

We snicker behind our hands and I'm glad I have a friend for this crossing. I can count plenty of voyages where I didn't find comradery with a single stewardess—and plenty where most of the stewardesses avoided me like a disease —and while I was often too busy to indulge in a foreign concept like 'friendship,' it did make these long journeys more bearable.

Cissie guided us towards the first class decks to see the library, dining rooms, and passenger cabins. We all followed, mostly giddy at the prospect of being a part of _Titanic_ on her maiden voyage, but for me there was still an underlying feeling of dread that would not subside.

* * *

Harold Lowe was amazed that one man could have so much knowledge and yet not a shred of wisdom in his body. It was like watching a circus act, seeing Bruce Ismay parade around the boat deck with gang of reporters at his heels; like the ringleader and his band of monkeys. They passed by as Harold made his way to the bridge, Mr. Ismay enlightening the reporters, and in turn the public, about the marvel that was _Titanic_.

"Gentlemen, here we have _Titanic's_ gymnasium, an innovative addition to the ships construction. For a shilling passengers are welcome to use top of the line exercise equipment at the discretion of _Titanic's_ own personal physical educator…"

The rest of Mr. Ismay's speech is lost as they entered the gymnasium. Men file in after the ship owner, dressed in their newsboy caps with pens and notebooks at the ready. At the back of the group, Mr. Andrews tailed to answer any questions about the architecture of the ship that may arise. He halfheartedly listened, glancing at Harold as he passed. He gave a wink and Harold returned it with a fleeting smile of his own. Over his shoulder, he watched the six or so men file into the gymnasium, then the magnesium flash of the camera tray went off and he shook his head.

Even he wasn't prideful enough to admit that _Titanic_ was impressive. He had been on plenty of ships in his lifetime, but none to this grandeur. It was inspiring and luxurious and Mr. Ismay was making a complete spectacle of it. All of the excitement over the ship was not lost to Harold, he understood perfectly why people were in awe, he just didn't share the same enthusiasm. A ship was a ship; give him the stars and a rudder and a sail and so long as it took him from point A to point B in one piece, he would be satisfied. A gymnasium? Jesus, what would they think of next. Even so, despite his distaste at the world romanticizing a ship, Mr. Andrews had outdone himself with this creation. It really was magnificent.

As he neared the deck, Harold spied two of his fellow officers at the wing of the bridge. James Moody stood talking with Joseph Boxhall, both wearing smiles that told Harold something was up. He joined them at the rail.

"What's the news then?" he asked and they turned to him.

James grinned and pointed over his shoulder towards the forecastle.

"Stewardesses," he said suggestively, raising an eyebrow.

Harold leaned over and watched the sea of white pinafores move across the deck. They paused briefly at the entrance to first class, then disappeared under the bridge to the lower decks.

"I love recruitment day," James said with an impish look on his face. Harold ignored his brazen comment. Only James could make that statement sound sexual.

"Has Ismay finished with his parade?" Joseph asked.

So Harold wasn't the only one who thought Bruce Ismay could stand to be knocked down a few pegs.

Harold turned around and leaned against the rail, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his arms over his chest. "I suspect he'll drag it on for as long as possible," he replied.

Joseph chuckled.

"Well I think it's a nice notion," James offered and both Joseph and Harold turned to look at him exasperatedly. He quickly elaborated. "I was talking with Mr. Andrews yesterday. He was explaining to me that the ship is so meticulously built that you could slice it three ways vertically and each individual piece would remain afloat, so why not celebrate? It's a ship ahead of its time."

Harold resisted the urge to roll his eyes. James had been sucked in by the fantasy as well then.

Harold might have been the odd man out among the officers, but James was the youngest, both in age and in rank, and so suffered relentless torment from his fellow officers at his expense. It wasn't two days ago that the third officer found a copy of English poetry on James' mattress and the rest of the officers all but laughed him off the ship. He handled the teasing surprisingly well, and perhaps that's why the other officers did it so much; because they knew James would take it with a grain of salt and a smile. That, and James unwittingly set himself up for verbal assault on a daily basis, so the temptation to ridicule him was just too great. Like the dreamy eyed gaze he wore while talking about _Titanic._ It looked positively moronic, and Harold had about a dozen slurs he was prepared to throw at the sixth officer because of it.

Joseph came to James's rescue with his next comment, distracting Harold from the snippy reply he was about to unleash on James.

"I suppose they don't call it unsinkable for nothing," Joseph commented.

"Is that what they're saying?" Harold asked and Joseph nodded. "You know they said the same thing about the _Lusitania_."

"Well, yes, but I don't recall her ever sinking either," James said and both he and Joseph laughed.

Will Murdoch rounded the corner off the bridge and the three officers straightened at his presence, their laughter dying respectfully.

"What's got you lot acting like school girls?" Will asked.

"Harold's just seen Mr. Ismay's new suit and hat with Mr. Ismay inside. Says he looked thoroughly silly, sir," James said and Harold shot him a dirty look. James didn't have a discreet bone in his body and one of these days it was going to get him in trouble, if not by Harold then by someone else. He didn't think mocking the ship owner was a terribly good way to start a maiden voyage.

To Harold's surprise, Will grinned. "Yes I saw. Can't help but make a scene of himself, can he?"

The four of them exchanged smirks.

Harold had answered the call to Liverpool over two weeks ago, along with the other officers. It had given them plenty of time to get acquainted with each other and yet Harold still felt a little lost. Two weeks of trying to make friends with his fellow officers and he had nothing to show for it. The others had worked with each other at least once before boarding _Titanic_ ; Will, James, Charles, Joseph and Bert Pitman had all sailed together on the _Oceanic_. Will and Henry Wilde had worked under Captain Smith before on the _Olympic_. James had an annoying habit of following Charles around like a lost puppy dog. He had so much admiration for the senior officer that Bert had suggested a marriage between the two. James happily obliged. Bert and Joseph were close, and often sat together talking in the smoke room after dinner.

Harold was the odd man out, and while the other officers were perfectly kind to him, he couldn't help but feel estranged. They all talked like old friends while he felt like he was walking on eggshells around them. One wrong word, and they would all turn their backs on him for good. James was the only one he didn't have to worry about. James had made it his mission to befriend Harold, no matter how much Harold resisted. It seemed the more he ignored him, the more persistent James became.

Harold liked the men he worked with, there was no doubt about that. They were all hard working, respectable, good humored men. They got along well too, and worked in sync while on the bridge, but there was just _something_ that set Harold apart and he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He tried being friendly, but it seemed his fellow officers were riding with the tide and he was stuck swimming against it. He had better figure how to change his corse and fast, or else it was going to be a long trip.

"The cargos in," Will said after a moment, pulling Harold from his thoughts. "We'll need someone at the forecastle with the manifest and someone down in the holding deck giving orders."

"Aye, sir," James and Joseph said in unison, quickly. James went off down the boat deck towards the forecastle and Joseph disappeared into the bridge to retrieve the manifest. Will turned to Harold.

"I'll have you run down to the docking bridge," he said, his voice laced with annoyance, "One of the quartermasters swears the telemotor is off. Take a look at it and notify me or the chief engineer if you see anything?"

"Yes, sir," Harold replied with a nod. Will nodded back, then excused himself for the bridge. Harold started off down towards the stern of the ship by himself.

He told himself to be patient. There was always a bit of uncertainty when joining a new ship. Harold had faced tougher hardships than making friends on _Titanic_. A few days at sea and he would settle into his position among the officers and the rest of the voyage would be, for lack of a better phrase, smooth sailing.

* * *

Inside the cool and, most importantly, dim interior of Titanic, my head had substantial improvement. Cissie gave us a quick tour of first class, hardly giving us enough time to appreciate the ornate wood paneled walls, the hunter green velvet chairs, the leaded glass windows or the gold trimmed carpet, before she whisked us off to the cabins for room assignments. I tried not to be cross, knowing that I would have plenty of time to wander around Titanic freely before the passengers arrived. I couldn't wait until we were turned loose.

Violet and I were assigned a room together, and we both tried not to look too happy about it for fear of giving Mary a heart attack at seeing us as anything but miserable. I had a feeling Cissie purposefully assigned us as roommates, which made me like her twice as much as before. The rest of the room assignments were given out, then Cissie handed us a list of our cabins and passengers, and allowed us to go and unpack.

Violet and I made our way down to B Deck. We occupied the first stewardesses cabin, all the way fore on the deck, and in turn were responsible for the sixty or so passenger cabins there. Violet turned the gold knob and with a push of her hip, she opened the door to our room. I followed in after her.

The room had one bunk with two beds, two wardrobes and a wash basin. It was modest, but clean and fairly spacious for two young women. The room was paneled with similar mahogany wood as the rest of the first class deck. White sheets with heavy, navy wool blankets dressed the beds. I dropped my trunk in front of one of the wardrobes.

"It's nice," Violet commented and I nodded my head in agreement.

We set to unpacking our things. I lifted the lid to my trunk and carefully moved some of my dresses to the wardrobe. I left the others tightly folded because I was terrified of what was hidden below them, shoved to the very bottom of my trunk as if I could forget I had ever placed it in there.

Violet spoke again and I jumped.

"When are you really going to tell me what happened last night?"

I scowled and busied myself with trying to flatten out the creases in my uniform cap before shoving it in one of the drawers. Violet was too perceptive for her own good. I should have known better than to use nerves as an excuse; I'd been on too many ships at this point to be worried about nerves and Violet knew that.

"Lucy Fairchild if you don't tell me what's got you nursing the Irish flu…" she halfheartedly threatened. She couldn't hurt a fly if she wanted to. I smiled at her, but it's weak.

I had no idea what to say. Violet was my friend, and friends should tell her each other secrets, but even if I wanted to tell her everything, I wouldn't know how to begin. I could barely sort the terrible mess that my life had become myself, let alone try and explain the mortifying complications to another objector. Charles was the only one who understood; he had wadded through the hell with me for the past four years or so. We had watched each other try and scramble out of a slow downfall, but it seemed the harder we fought, the faster we fell. Up until a few months ago, that is, when we finally saw a silver lining. Even so, the memories were too fresh, too new, to talk about. I wanted nothing more than to bury the past and forget about it.

"I can't explain it," I finally offered and Violet raised a dark eyebrow at me.

I wet my lips, scrambling for something to put her at ease. Perhaps if I only told her half the truth then that would be enough.

"There's a man on board I once knew," I said softly, "And I've just got the funniest feeling that we won't be very pleased to see each other. I _was_ drinking to take the edge off my nerves, but not about the ship, about seeing this man. In a worst case scenario, he'll ruin everything I've worked for, in a best case scenario, I'll manage to cross the Atlantic without ever running into him."

It's a vague answer but I didn't want to give her more than that. Violet seemed to understand. She nodded her head and went back to unpacking her things. I quietly put away the last of my dresses and push the trunk underneath our bed.

"If it makes you feel any better," Violet said after a moment, "It's the largest ship in history. There's bound to be plenty of places to hide."

I look at her for a few long seconds before I choke out a laugh at the ludicrousness of the whole situation. It's just my luck that when I try to make my escape to America and leave everything behind, the man from my past reappears to pull me back over the void.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

 **April 7** **th** **1912**

The next morning saw me crouched in the abandoned corridor of B Deck. These days were my favorite, the days before the passengers arrived and the large liner was left quiet and near empty. Walking the silent, narrow hallways, sitting in the cafe and watching the motes swirl in the morning light, dragging my fingers along the leather bound book spines in the vacant library; it brought a sense of quiet peace to me that I seemed to be having a hard time finding these days. We were free to explore the ship as we pleased before the passengers arrived, then we would be confined to our cabins and the crew passages to remain as out of sight as possible for the duration of the trip. Exploring every inch of _Titanic_ had occupied most of my time since my summons. Every inch that is, with the exception of the boat deck.

The interior of the ship was just as luxurious as the exterior, and had been expertly designed to make even the cramped service rooms as spacious looking as possible. Violet and I had spent the last few hours prepping cabins. After _Titanic_ had been fitted out, there seemed to be a fine layer of grime left by the designers and we had scrubbed our cabins in B Deck from top to bottom until we saw our reflections in the waxed wood. I spent the morning polishing the brass knobs in all the cabins and on all the doors. It was meticulous work, but I liked it. It gave me a chance to spend some time alone, keep my hands busy and sort out bothersome thoughts that had kept me up the night before.

Unfortunately this time I didn't have the bourbon.

I dipped the wadding into my tin of brass cleaner and wiped down the door handle of room B16. Crouched on the floor, I looked up and down the deserted corridor. A few more days and the passengers would be arriving and _Titanic_ would be brought to life. A mixture of excitement and apprehension filled my bones.

I still hadn't seen sign of Charles or Harry. Granted, I was doing everything in my power to avoid one and as a result was accidentally avoiding the other. Every time I saw an officer uniform, my heart fluttered in my chest and I ducked out of sight as soon as I regained feeling in my legs. I can see a heart attack in my near future if I keep up this sort of nonsensical behavior.

I wondered if Harry knew I was on board. Charles likely wouldn't say anything about me, he'd have no reason to, and there wasn't much gain for Harry to look at the stewardess list. There was a good chance he had no idea. Part of me wanted so badly to see him. It had been ten or so years since we last spoke and I wasn't sure if he would remember or even recognize me. I remember him, or rather the fourteen year old version of him; gangly and dark haired, with a stubborn head and nonchalant demeanor. Always getting into trouble, and always finding ways to get out of trouble. A teasing charm and brooding temperament held together by a gap toothed smile. Passionate by nature which was generally commendable but occasionally awkward.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, and I realized that I'd been polishing the brass door knob into oblivion. I gathered my things and moved to the next suite. I gave a listless attempt to remove Harry from my mind, but he didn't budge.

The other half of me was terrified of seeing him again, and angry at the prospect. He deserved a good chewing out for abandoning me like he did, and for what he put his mother through. He never wrote, never visited, and for all I knew he was as good as dead…until I saw his name on the crew list those few nights ago.

"I can't imagine it's going to get much cleaner than that."

I jumped and wheeled around, almost falling on my backside from the precarious perch on my toes. I hadn't heard Violet approach. I dropped the wadding into the tin of brasso and stand up, wiping my hands on my pinafore.

"Why would you do that to me?" I whined. "You know I've been beside myself since we boarded."

She flashed me a cheeky smile. "Cissie's gone into town to order some supplies. She'll be gone for at least an hour or so. Let's get some air on the boat deck before she gets back with another list of things for us to clean."

I gave an overly dramatic sigh. "Violet you know we set sail in a few short days and we have so much to do before then. Fit the linens, wash the vanity mirrors, outfit the gimbal lamps…"

"She's leaving Mary in charge until she gets back," Violet interrupted me.

"God help us all," I quickly replied and kicked the brass cleaner so it skidded across the carpet and out of my way. "Even that negligible amount of power will go straight to her abnormally large head. Let's disappear, shall we?"

Violet grinned and led the way to the main staircase. I followed, happy for the distraction but knowing we'd pay for it later. There was a mighty list of things that needed to be done before the maiden voyage, but there was hardly any harm in taking a break to explore the upper decks.

We hurried up the steps to first class promenade and toe of my boot caught the hem of my uniform and set me sprawling.

"Blast!" I muttered as I picked myself up, glaring at Violet who was overcome with giggles at my expense.

Upon arrival, we had been expected to be dressed in our stewardesses uniforms for the remainder of the time spent on the ship. As comfortable as they were, I hated the uniforms. Black and white, like they couldn't decide if we were going to a wedding or a funeral. They were basic and functional and stood as a reminder that while aboard we only lived to serve. The White Star Line had set out to make us as unattractive as possible, I was certain of it. Turns out making us a plain solved many a problems, namely jealous wives and husbands who couldn't keep their hands to themselves. I had one such passenger on the _Medic_ , an old man who had a habit of dropping things right at his feet then asking me to pick them up just so he could watch my backside when I bent over. Even in a nun habit we still managed to cause trouble because according to the wives, it was all the stewardesses' fault. It had nothing to do with the fact that they married men with pervert moralities. We were always to blame. It was easier than facing the truth.

I brushed my hands over my dress and tucked an escaped lock of hair behind my ear. Violet pulled open the glass door of the foyer and we stepped out into the cool morning air. I turned to look out over the starboard rail and the water below us, my mood lifting considerably.

* * *

Morning fog settled over the port and Harold stifled a yawn as he left his quarters, dressed in his officers uniform. He crossed through the wheel house, nodding to one of the quartermasters, before finding James on the navigation bridge with a cup of coffee.

James gave a lighthearted, "Morning," as Harold approached.

Despite over ten years of being an experienced mariner and subjected to more dog watches than he cared to count, Harold could never seem to adjust his internal clock to that of a junior officer. James was chipper as ever and Harold decided that he would have to take a page from whatever godforsaken book his companion used to wake himself up.

"Morning," he gave a muffled reply. James offered his cup of coffee and Harold took it gratefully, taking a few sips before handing the steaming mug back. He glanced around the bridge. "Awfully quiet today."

James nodded into his cup. "The senior officers have been holed up with Captain Smith in his sitting room all morning long."

"Don't say?" Harold asked, "What do you suspect that's about?" He leaned over the bridge railing, absentmindedly rubbing his hands together, more for something to do rather than for warmth. It wasn't a terribly blistery day, and he guessed that the fog would burn off within the hour.

James shrugged. "If I'm not mistaken, it's about a shuffle."

Harold raised a dark brow in question, looking at the sixth officer.

"Someone has to replace Blair," James said and shrugged again. Harold had forgotten about the fact Blair had been dropped from the ranks and Officer Wilde had switched ships as the replacement. He wondered briefly if Wilde would be demoted to take Blair's place, or if Charles and Will would step down to accompany Wilde.

They lapsed into silence and Harry racked his brain for something, _anything_ , to say to fill the void. He was never good at this though, even as a boy he struggled to put his thoughts into words. He always had things to say, opinions and thoughts he wanted people to hear, but the words somehow always disappeared in the space between his brain and his mouth. His brother George use to say they slipped down his throat and fell out his ass, much to their mothers' horror. After she boxed George's ear for his foul mouth, he only ever made that comment when they were out of earshot of their parents.

He didn't like awkward silences but he didn't know how to fill them, especially with the other officers. He wasn't sure what made him so tight lipped, but he seemed to have even more trouble voicing himself around them. There was always the chance that he would say the wrong thing and offend someone or make a fool of himself. When he did finally manage to open his mouth, whatever he said was usually decorated with his favorite curse words, and that did not always go over well with his peers. Then again, Harold had never been one to concern himself about what other people thought. He glanced at James, who stood sipping his coffee and looking perfectly content.

James glanced down at the coffee in his cup and sighed. "I suppose I should get some decent breakfast. Care to join me in the mess?"

Harold nodded and the two walked down the deck towards the officers mess hall. As they passed the railing, James tossed the contents of his mug over the side of the ship.

"I've been trying to convince my family to come see the ship before she sails," James commented, "But we can't seem to work out a date. I'd like to see them before we leave, but they keep insisting we'll have plenty of time together when I return."

Harold nodded slowly. He hated when people talked about families.

James shrugged. "I suppose I'll let them decide. No sense putting up a fight since we'll see each other either way. What about you Harry? Got a girl back in Whales who's going to see you off?" James nudged him with his elbow, and Harold stepped to the side to catch himself.

"Not even," he replied carefully and slipped back into step with James. They made it to the mess hall and James opened the door. They sunk into the velvet chairs as a steward appeared from the pantry with breakfast. Bert Pitman was also in the mess hall, sitting across the ebony wood table from James and Harold. A near empty plate of eggs and ham sat on the table before him, his nose buried in the morning paper. He glanced up at the other officers as they entered and smiled, his thick mustache curling up at the corners. Harold was thoroughly jealous of Bert's finely groomed facial hair and wished he could grow a mustache half that impressive. Despite Harold's ink black hair, any stubble that grew on his chin came in an obnoxious red color thanks to the Celtic heritage on his mothers side. A quick shave with the straight edge razor every morning had been his routine since he was seventeen, and would probably remain so until his hair turned as white as Captain Smiths.

"Mornings lads," Bert said and snapped the paper closed.

Harold and James nodded in greeting.

"Haven't found the right one then?" James asked turning to Harold, obviously not letting their pervious conversation go. "Or is it something more complicated than that? I read a book a few weeks ago by Mr. Mayne called _The Intersexes_. He had some interesting theories on love..."

Harold ignored James's comment and picked up the cup of tea the steward had placed in front of him, taking a sip.

"Theories like what?" Bert asked from across the table and Harold silently wished they would stop discussing theories on his love life.

"Like abnormal thinking about sexuality," James replied nonchalantly and looked at Harold again, "Do you find women attractive? Or are you having unnatural thoughts about men, Harry? Because they have a cure for that now, some type of hypnotic therapy, or so I've heard…"

Harold's face flushed and the tea he was drinking hit the back of this throat and made him choke. He coughed in surprise. "Jesus, James!" he snapped and gingerly set his cup down on the saucer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He coughed again and across the table, Bert's face had gone pale with shock. "I'm not a rent boy you idiot!"

James laughed and held his hands up in surrender because Harold looked like he was close to punching the sixth officer square in the jaw. Bert seemed to recover from his initial shock and gave a hesitant laugh. Harold shot him a scathing glare across the table and looked at James, red faced and angry.

"Where's your sense of propriety?" Harold snapped and James laughed again.

"Back in Scarborough with the rest of my dignity!"

Bert grinned sheepishly, obviously entertained by the exchange despite the inappropriateness of the whole conversation.

Harold shoved his chair back and the wood legs groaned against the floorboards. He was suddenly not feeling very hungry. "Get your head out of your ass James," Harold said as he stood up and marched towards the door.

"Come now Harry!" James called after him. "It was just a bit of fun!"

Harold closed the door of the mess hall behind him, using what little self control he had left not to slam it shut. Out on the promenade deck again, he drew a deep breath of cold salty air to calm himself down but his irritation with James did not subside. He walked to the rail and glanced over at the grey blue water.

Something like that coming from James should not have been unexpected. Harold was willing to bet that embarrassing people was James's favorite pass time, but James was typically the butt of the jokes on _Titanic_ , not Harold, and he did not find the humor in any of it. And the absurdity of it all! No one accused him of _that_ before. It was degrading, and the fact that Bert was in the mess and had witnessed the whole exchange made it that much more embarrassing. Harold sighed and removed his peaked cap, raking his fingers through his dark hair. He had overreacted. After all, James had been put through the ringer many a times before by the other officers and had always laughed it off. It was typical of Harold, and he hated it; of course _he_ would go and lose his temper like that over a silly joke.

He should apologize, but Harold would rather have his fingernails taken off than admit he was wrong. He sighed as the door to the officers mess opened and James stepped out. Harold glanced over his shoulder as he sidled up to the rail next to him.

"Bert says I was out of line."

"You were," Harold grumbled.

"No need to be upset, Harry," James replied sweetly, "You make it too easy when you get worked up like that, I was just looking for a laugh. There was no harm in it."

Harold look at James, who smiled up at him with a grin that was akin to Mr. Barrie's _Peter Pan._

"No, I suppose not," Harold sighed and turned his uniform cap over in his hands.

"So, will anyone come to see you off?" James asked after a moment. Harold noticed the hesitation in his voice.

He could have laughed spitefully, if he were the laughing type.

"I haven't spoken to my family in years. I would be flabbergasted if they showed up at Southampton," Harold finally replied.

James shifted slightly and knowing the man, even for however briefly Harold had, he knew that James was itching to ask more questions but Harold was not willing to give him answers. It was hard enough talking about his family so casually, but to actually confide in someone about the relationships he had spent so many years trying to forget was a completely different story.

Everything had changed after George drowned. Harold had always been a mischievous child, but after the death of his older brother, he felt himself unraveling and didn't know how to stop it. He bickered with his siblings and parents more often and got into trouble with the constable and the clergyman on numerous occasions. There was so much anger in his heart as a young boy that he felt sick from it. The early mornings quickly became his favorite time of day. Those few seconds when he would wake up, still groggy from sleep, before he remembered that his brother was gone or that his father had spent the night locked in his office or that his mother had cried so hard in her sleep it woke her up, those few seconds of blissful ignorance made him feel an inkling of peace. He'd stretch, content, then reality would settle in and he would remember that his family was still reeling and life was moving on with or without George. Those brief seconds would pass and Harold was reminded about how unfair life was and how bitter the hand that he had been dealt was and suddenly he hated everything all over again.

He couldn't possibly explain to James the magnitude that George's death had on his family. He also couldn't explain why he had fled home at fourteen, like a coward, because he was scared of ending up like his father. Or why he had never written his mother because he was ashamed that he disappeared on her after she already lost another child. He couldn't fathom how someone like James, excitable, romantic James, could understand the constant turmoil of guilt and anger that brewed in him each day.

"That's fine then," James said. "You can just share my family."

Harold looked at James again and this time he grinned. James smiled back and Harold replaced his White Star Line cap.

James's gaze slid to something just past Harold's shoulder and their conversation was finally forgotten.

Two pinafores passed by along the deck and James eyed them as they went by. He grinned at Harold and his attention switched so quickly Harold wondered if he was talking to a man or a goldfish. James raised his eyebrow suggestively and Harold gave him a pleading look to leave the stewardesses alone.

"Beautiful day, isn't it ladies?" James asked as he removed his hat and nodded to the two girls.

The girls stopped and the one with dark hair looked over at James with a sharp gaze, seeing right through his sweet façade. She obviously had experience with overly friendly, flirtatious men and knew better than to fall for James's charming grin.

"Beautiful day indeed officer," she said wearily.

Harold felt his neck and cheeks grow warm and he had to turn away out of embarrassment for James. He looked down at the water, pretending to be immensely interested in the waves lapping the side of the ship. In all honesty, women aboard the ship, stewardesses or not, always brought a new level of excitement on the voyages, but only James had the balls to actually say what was on his mind. He could make a picket fence blush given the opportunity and Harold had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't bat an eyelash at the challenge.

"Harry?"

Harold stiffened slightly and looked over his shoulder at who had spoken his name. The voice was feminine, but he was certain he didn't know any stewardesses aboard.

The second stewardess had stepped forward. She looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes, her brows pinched together as her gaze flickered over his face. Her dark haired friend stood behind her, watching them apprehensively, and James looked slightly confused. Harold probably wore a similar expression, because he had no idea where he knew the woman.

The stewardess glanced at him up and down briefly then took a step back, dropping her gaze and looking hurt. Her lips pressed together and as Harold watched the movement, recognition dawned on him. _Those lips_. He had seen those lips giving him a lopsided smile hundreds of times before. He looked at her hair, blonde like a palominos, which used to be tied up with a white ribbon when she was younger. And her eyes…blue like the color of cornflower.

Harold's throat felt dry. "My God," he breathed. "Lucy."

He took a step towards her and she shied back.

Harold felt like he was in a dream. The Lucy he knew was a little girl, not the woman before him. Her knees used to be constantly black with dirt. She would burst through the back door of the Lowe household, no matter how many times Harold told her not to, and shout his name to come down to the tracks with her. They use to steal George's slingshot and try and hit woodpeckers with rocks. They missed almost every time of course, but when Harold finally did hit a bird, he broke its wing. They both felt so terrible for the poor thing that they only ever shot at empty bottles after that.

The woman before Harold was not Lucy. She was so much older. Harold had been away from home for a long time, but not this long. Her jaw was sharper and her hair was darker. She had a full figure, instead of the boney shoulders and lanky legs he remembered. There were more freckles on her nose.

This couldn't be real. He reached out his hand, fingers inching to brush the strands of hair that had fallen into her face, and wanting to see if the woman before him was an apparition or not.

Lucy's gaze darted to Harold and her brows furrowed, almost angrily. Her hand came up and smacked him across the face. It wasn't hard, but it still smarted. He closed his eyes against the sting, then blinked at Lucy in surprise. His hand, halfway suspended to her, came up to touch his cheek.

She was definitely not an apparition.

"That," Lucy huffed, "was for your mother."

Her eyes were bright with tears. She seemed just as surprised at herself as Harold was. He didn't know what to say or do. He hadn't known what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn't that.

Next to him, James snorted with laughter.

Lucy's eyes snapped to the sixth officer.

"Would you like one too James?" she growled, blinking away her tears. The uncertain attitude she was sporting before had vanished like a wisp of smoke, replaced by deep seeded anger. The shock from seeing Harold, the man she thought dead, had worn off. _This_ was the Lucy Harold remembered; a little spitfire with a cool exterior. Headstrong and too clever for her own good.

For the second time that morning, James lifted his hands in mock surrender, half attempting to hide is glee at seeing Harold being slapped by a girl.

She glanced back at Harold, who was staring at her dumbfounded, his hand still on his cheek. She shook her head, eyes pained with a sad expression, then reached behind her for her friend's hand.

"Let's go V," she mumbled quietly, "We've got work to do and Cissie will be back any moment."

She ducked her head and pushed past Harold, the dark haired stewardess in tow. He turned and watched them go, Lucy stalking down the deck determinedly not looking back at him. They disappeared past the foyer doors to the staircase.

James laughed louder once the stewardesses had gone. Harold wheeled on him. His mind was reeling with questions. So many questions he didn't know which to ask first.

"Alright there mate?" James asked as he slapped Harold's shoulder. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

That's exactly what it felt like. One moment she was before him, after all these years, then she was gone. It all felt so surreal to him.

"How did she know _you_?" Harold asked, struggling to keep his voice even. He felt so torn, so confused.

"Lucy Fairchild?" James asked and pushed off the railing to walk back towards the bridge. "She sailed on the _Oceanic_ before this. Her and Lights were close… _very_ close."

Harold practically scrambled after James. Trying to keep his composure, he asked as steadily as he could manage, "How do you mean?" but his voice cracked at the end of the question. He wasn't sure he wanted an explanation.

James looked at him with a grin, obviously enjoying the piece of gossip that Harold was begging to hear.

"She used to meet him on the boat deck all the time," James explained. "I'd catch them talking quietly to each other on more than one occasion. I saw her leaving his cabin once or twice too. I asked Lights about it but he never really gave me an answer. Usually just brushed it off…told me to keep my nose out of his business."

"Are you saying that she and Lights…?"

James shrugged his shoulders as the rounded the wing of the bridge. "It's not my place but that's what it looked like. I only talked to Lucy a few times but she seemed decent enough, and as far as I know Light's is happily married. So I can't, for the life of me, understand why they would do something like that…"

James's voice dropped to a whisper as they entered the wheelhouse with the quartermaster.

"Maybe it was nothing," Harold muttered but even as he said the words, he knew they weren't true. He was just trying to convince himself of something he already knew the answer to. "Lights would never do that to his wife."

James just gave him a steady look. "Maybe," he answered slowly, "but Lucy is young and pretty and Lights is just a man. They did an awful lot of sneaking around for people who were just friends."

James glanced down at his jacket and gave it a tug as he and Harold waited for the senior officers to emerge from the captain's office. Bert appeared on the bridge moments later with Joseph at his side, laughing together. Harold watched them, wondering if they knew about Lucy and Charles. After all, they had sailed on the _Oceanic_ too.

"How do _you_ know her?" James asked quietly, then chuckled to himself. "She didn't seem too happy to see you."

Harold was saved from answering his question when the captain and officers emerged from the back of the bridge. Charles was out first, looking irritated. He didn't even acknowledge the junior officers as he turned and marched down the hall towards his quarters. As Harold watched him go, he realized how much he _hated_ the man. He was cheating on his wife with the woman Harold had known since childhood. He had been missing her for fifteen years and Charles had been having her for who knew how long. He was sick with jealousy.

Wilde appeared next with the captain, both looking serious. Murdoch followed after them, lips pressed to a fine line as he approached the junior officers. He glanced at them, ready to give orders, but stopped short when he saw the fifth officer.

"Christ Harry. Are you feeling alright? You look like you're about to faint." He said.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

 **April 7** **th** **1912**

Harold sat across from Charles in the mess hall that night. Supper was fairly casual since the Captain and the chief officer were dining with Mr. Ismay and Mr. Andrews. They were waiting on James, who seemed to have gotten himself either lost or killed because there was no other explanation as to why he was so late. Joseph was seated next to Harold, talking to Will about what the tobacco stocks had been showing on the ticker tape the last few weeks. Herbert was talking to Charles, who was listening, though he seemed a bit distracted and Harold wondered if it was because Henry had taken his position as Chief Officer or if it was something else. He watched Charles as they waited, chin resting on his hand as he glowered at the senior officer over his fingers.

He wanted to know everything about him and Lucy but he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. So far he had managed to keep his mouth shut and save his questions for a later date, though he wasn't sure how long he could last. They seemed to be scratching at the inside of his brain, desperate for a way out. It was only a matter of time before Harold couldn't take it anymore and the questions would come out in a rush. He hoped that when they did, he and Charles would be alone. That way, if Harold decided to throttle the man there would be no witnesses.

Charles's gaze slide to Harold, who quickly averted his eyes as the door to the mess hall opened and James finally arrived. He slipped into the room and took his seat next to Charles and Harold noted that his eyes were bloodshot.

"About bloody time!" Will said exasperated, and indicated to the steward to bring the food out. "What took you so long?"

James didn't reply as all eyes were on him.

"What—have you been crying?" Joseph asked from across the table.

"Shove off Joe," James said evenly.

"He has!" said Charles, who leaned over to get a better look. James kept his gaze on the steward that laid a plate of food before him but sure enough his eyes were red from tears.

"Miss your mum do you?" Will asked with a smirk.

James glanced at him. "Yes, actually. I cried almost as much as _your_ mother did when _I_ left _her_."

"Watch it lad," Will snapped as Bert and Joseph roared with laughter. Despite his foul mood that evening, Harold grinned at the sixth officer's comment.

James reached up and rubbed his tired looking eyes, sighing. "If you gits must know Margret has gone and had herself another baby; a little girl. I've just got the news."

"Well that's reason to celebrate then," Will said.

"Yes, except I would have liked to meet my niece before setting sail," James muttered. "It's been a while since I've been able to see my family. My aunt can't come see me off and now my sisters had a baby and I just feel homesick for them, so yes, Will, I do miss my mother."

"Request a leave," Harold suggested.

"I did before I was assigned to _Titanic_ but it was denied," James said moving his food around his plate with the fork.

Charles reached over and put a hand on James's shoulder and Harold wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and smack it off. "Just one more crossing, James," he said, "Make it to New York and back and I'll have a chat with the offices to see if we can't get you that leave come fall."

James look at Charles and gave a half smile. "Thank you Lights."

The conversation died a little as the officers ate. Harold found himself with very little appetite. His mind was else ware.

After years of being apart from Lucy, she was only a few decks down from where he sat. He would have liked to skip dinner all together and go find her, but after the way she reacted when he saw her, he wasn't sure she would want to talk to him. He didn't blame her for slapping him after the way he left home, without a word of where he was going or why, he just wished that Lucy would give him the chance to explain himself. There was so much he had to say to her.

He looked at Charles, wondering how often he and Lucy spoke. If they were as close as James said, he must have seen her by now. He probably tracked her down that first day the stewardesses boarded the ship. How much had Lucy shared with Charles? Did he know about her father? That she loved raspberries so much she used to pluck them out of Mr. Walcott's garden until he chased her down with his forty four? Or that her favorite tree to climb was that ancient cottonwood that grew by the tracks? The thought of Lucy sharing intimate details of her life with Charles fueled an anger Harold hadn't felt since George's death.

The more his mind wandered, the more distracted he became. He found himself staring at Charles again until the officer looked up at him. This time, Harold did not avert his gaze.

"What about you Lights?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual. "How long has it been since you've seen Sylvia?"

Charles leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushing over the polished wood of the table as he thought about his wife. "Two weeks," he replied, "Haven't seen her since the summons and likely won't see her for another few weeks."

"And why's that?" Bert asked.

Charles looked at the other junior officer. "I sent her back to Australia to see her mother. Charlotte's been after me because she claims she doesn't see her grandchildren enough."

A laugh rippled around the table, except for Harold. The grip on his knife was white knuckled. Sending Sylvia to Australia must have been a ploy to keep Lucy close without causing suspicion.

"I suppose you'll find other ways to keep yourself occupied," Harold said.

"Yes, keeping you lot in line takes up most of my time," he replied.

Feeling a pair of eyes on him, Harold looked towards James, who gave him a pleading look. Every part of Harold's conscious told him to shut his mouth before he got carried away and got himself, Charles and even Lucy in trouble, but he couldn't stop now. The questions were coming. He wanted answers and he wanted to humiliate Charles for hurting his wife and using Lucy the way he was.

And yet, calling out his senior officers affair with a stewardess at dinner was not an appropriate way to make a good impression on the very men he was trying so hard to win over.

Harold opened his mouth to retaliate, but James quickly spoke up from across the table to cut him off.

"You'll never guess what Hugh McElroy told me today," he said, grinning. Harold glowered at him, knowing that he was pulling a story out of thin air to try and steer the conversation away from where it was going.

"What?" Joseph asked.

Before James could answer, Harold spoke up. He was in too deep, he wasn't about to stop now, no matter how much James silently begged him to.

"I met some stewardesses this morning," he commented, "Lovely girls, all of them. Have you met any Lights?"

An awkward silence settled over the party, Bert and Joseph exchanging odd looks while Will's gaze shifted between the officers, brow furrowed, and likely wondering what sort of stupidity had taken over his men. Charles, mid bite, chewed slowly as he met Harold's penetrating gaze. He set his fork down and laced his fingers together. He kept his expression passive, but Harold saw the color flush from his cheeks. He couldn't help the smirk that crept to his lips at this small victory.

"Unfortunately no," Charles said, "I've been too busy doing my duties as an officer and a husband to be distracted by the victualling crew."

Harold grit his teeth and slammed his fist against the table. The knife in his hand clattered against the wood. "Bullocks!" he snapped.

Charles jumped to his feet and Harold was seconds after him. Both men stood across the table, glaring at each other.

"What the hell has gotten into you boy!" Charles growled.

Will, red faced, shoved his chair back and stood up to level with the other two officers. "Oi! What's this about?"

Bert's eyes widened a fraction as he watched the exchange. Joseph's face went blank and he looked around for some indication as to what was transpiring between Harold and Charles. James, abandoning all attempt to quell Harold, was looking bright eyed between the standing men, chin in his palms and grinning happily as he watched the exchange. There were few things he loved more than good dramatics and right now he felt like he was watching a Greek tragedy unfold. He wished all his dinners were like this.

"Don't play me for a fool Lights," Harold said, ignoring Will's attempt to bring the tension down, "James and I were on the boat deck this morning with Lucy Fairchild."

The second officer's face went pale and he shot a steely look at James, who withered under his gaze.

"Don't drag me into this Harry," he muttered, but no one gave any indication that they heard him.

"How do you know Lucy?" Charles said slowly, carefully.

"That's none of your business."

"The hell it is." Charles straightened and brushed pass James as he rounded the table towards Harold.

"Charlie, don't." Will warned and reached for his friend, who shoved away from his grasp. James raised his eyebrows because no one called Charles by his actual name. James was certain even his own mother referred to him as 'Lights'

"We need to talk," Charles said to Harold. His deep voice had grown softer, though no less threatening. His level composure that Harold saw so regularly was back.

Harold scoffed. "No we don't Lights," he replied and stepped back from the table, towards the door, deciding that he no longer wanted to hear what Charles had to say. The thought of them together was sickening enough already, the last thing Harold wanted was to hear the words that would make his suspicions about Lucy and Charles concrete. "Keep away from her, I won't ask again." Harold threatened then turned and left the mess hall.

Charles watched him go, sighing. Everyone sat in tense silence until Joseph spoke up.

"Who's Lucy?" he asked from the table, then added, "Should we go after him?"

Charles looked at his fellow officers, who were all watching him curiously. He took his seat at the table again. "It's nothing, I'm sure," he said lamely. "Harry's dealing with something personal, best we leave him to it."

Will slowly lowered himself into the velvet chair. Only after Charles and Will began eating again, did the junior officers follow suit, though no one seemed particularly interested in their food anymore. They ate in silence; most lost in quiet confusion, one in quiet trepidation.

Harold strode down the corridor to his cabin, thoroughly embarrassed with himself and furious at Charles. Instead of talking to Charles and hearing his side of the story like a decent human being would have, Harold went and let his temper get the best of him. The worst part was, was that he walked away without any answers, only a guilty feeling nagging at his stomach for the way he acted. If Will didn't fire him for his outburst, Harold would resign because he wasn't sure he could face the other officers again.

The thing that put him off the most was the idea that he could potentially loose the one person on this ship he considered a friend. He was at a loss with the other officers and the captain, but now that he knew Lucy was a stewardess, _Titanic_ didn't seem so intimidating and lonely anymore. He had someone to share this new ship, new crossing, new experience with, but not if she went gallivanting off with Charles whenever she could. It was a selfish thought and Harold knew he was just jealous and trying to justify his actions, but she was his last connection to home. He didn't want her to be with Charles, he wanted her to be with him, sharing stories of Barmouth. He hated the idea of her and Charles together, but he more so hated the idea of him without her.

He sighed as he swung open his cabin door and lumbered to his bed. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and forget the exchange ever happened. Tomorrow he would apologize to Charles. He didn't dare try and track down Lucy, since she made it evident she didn't want to talk to him, but he hoped that she would come around. He wanted to fix this miserable mess he had created for himself.

* * *

I pressed the heel of my hands to my eyes in frustration. "You stupid, stupid girl!" I murmured.

"I wouldn't say stupid," Violet said from her perch on her bed. She was sitting across from Annie, both with a fan of cards in their hands. She played a pair then looked at me. "Boorish, maybe, but not stupid."

I rolled my head over to look at her, having sprawled myself over my bed like a chaise and utilizing Violet as my personal therapist. Annie had entered halfway through our session for a game of cards. We had abandoned our pinafores and caps to a pile in the corner and Annie had the sleeves of her dressed pushed up to her elbows. As they played round after round, I recounted what I could about me and Harry.

I sighed.

It was stupid, really. I had been trying to avoid the boat deck since my arrival, but when Violet suggested we disappeared for an hour to avoid Mary, I jumped at the chance without putting two and two together. The air felt so good above decks and I had been so distracted I hardly paid attention to where we were walking until I saw Harry. Though I could only see his profile—the tip of an aquiline nose, the sturdy line of his jaw, a flicker of eyelashes when he blinked—there was no mistaking him. He was as tall as ever and as we approached, my heart beat in my chest like humming bird wings. I hoped we would pass by unnoticed, but then James had to go and open his fat mouth and ruin my brilliant plan of being as inconspicuous as possible.

When I looked at him, all sense of reasoning left my body. He was so handsome now, and older than I ever imagined. I wasn't sure what I expected to happen when we met, but him not recognizing me was at the bottom of my list of expectations. I wondered if he forgot what I looked like or if I changed so much that I had become unrecognizable. Either way, I was hurt by the way he looked at me like I was a stranger.

His eyes were the color of bitter coffee and they reminded me of Harriet's. Except, the last time I spoke to his mother, she was crying in the kitchen because her boy had walked out on the family after a fight with his father. Seeing Harry's gaze had me replaying that image of Harriet crying over the sink and anger struck me like lightning.

And then I _slapped_ him.

I groaned aloud at the thought. "Spare me the rest of the voyage and toss me overboard now."

"If you feel so bad, just apologize for hitting him," Annie said as she drew a card from the deck.

"I don't want to," I muttered.

Apologizing was the last thing I intended to do. Harry deserved every ounce of pain that slap brought him.

I wasn't concerned that any shred of self respect I had vanished when I slapped a commanding officer, though Mary would have a field day if she found out, it was the fact that Harry knowing I was on board _Titanic_ only complicated things. I knew he would ask questions about my life since leaving Barmouth and I couldn't bear the idea of lying to him. This was supposed to be a quiet skip across the Atlantic but with Harry here I knew it would be anything but.

"Why are you so worked up about all this?" Violet asked then laid down another set of cards. "Rummy."

Annie scowled and set to reshuffling the cards while Violet looked at me.

"He's an old friend," she continued, "Shouldn't you be happy to be seeing him again?"

"I am happy," I replied, "Just conflicted."

"Why?"

"I can't say."

Violet sighed and gave Annie and meaningful look.

I knew Violet was trying to be patient with me and I wanted to tell her everything, but I couldn't without dragging Charles and myself through the mud. He had scarified enough for me already and had secured a place for me on _Titanic_ to ensure I made it to America under his watch. I owed him my life and putting him on the fast track to the penitentiary by opening my mouth was not an appropriate way to say thank you.

Lies, lies, lies.

That seemed to be the only thing coming out of my mouth anymore.

"It sounds to me like you and this officer need to have a talk. It's been fifteen years, give him a chance," Annie said, "Besides, haven't you missed him?"

Yes, I had.

I sighed as the door to our room opened and Evelyn appeared. She was a few years older than me and in charge of a handful of cabins on C Deck. She had thick brown hair and freckles that reminded me of paint splatters. Her hair was forever immaculately done, and I was forever jealous of it.

"Ladies," she greeted as she sauntered over to my bed. I sat up to make room for her. "I've just heard the most interesting gossip about an officer and a stewardess and I came to see if it was true."

I dropped my head back to hit the paneled wall beside my bed.

"You heard correctly," Annie replied as she dealt the cards. "Care to play a hand? We'll let you in on all the dirty details."

Evelyn grinned and moved off my bed to join Violet and Annie. They looked at me expectantly.

I wasn't in the mood for cards. I had too much on my mind and dissecting this morning's events for the umpteenth time today did not constitute as a pleasant evening for me. I slid off my bed and laced up my leather boots.

"I'm going to go down to the galley to bother one of the scullions for something to eat," I murmured.

"Suit yourself," Violet said as I pulled open the door to our room and slipped into the hallway. An echo of laughter followed me to the stairs that lead to C Deck.

Annie was right, I did miss Harry. I never thought I would see him again after that day he left and yet here we were, on the same ship that would set sail for the same destination in a few days. I should count myself lucky that my dearest friend had stumbled his way back into my life. I smiled at the thought of having Harry close to me once more. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad having him on board. Just because we would be in close proximity did not mean that I would have to tell him _everything_ that happened since we parted ways. We could rekindle our friendship seamlessly and he would be none the wiser.

The main galley was on D Deck, and though I knew where it was located, I had never actually been inside.

I pushed through the double doors and passed the stewards offices on one side and the massive bain maires on the other. Through another set of doors led me into the main kitchen that housed a large range and prep tables. Off to my right was the baker's pantry and bread room, and further down the hall was the butcher's area. A separate store room contained the silverware and glassware and a scullery to my left was the size of a passenger cabin and held the fresh fruits and vegetables. A scullion, dressed in a white apron, barley looked up as I entered. He worked over a prep table, pressing dough into tart pans. He was talking to a passenger who had pulled up a seat to the table.

Most of the lights were off, since dinner had been over for a few hours now, and the kitchen felt eerily empty, with the exception of the two men. I walked over to them, eyeing the tart shells and wondering what it would take to get one.

The passenger looked up and when I realized who he was, I almost stopped short, thinking that perhaps this was not the best time to come down to the galley.

"Hello Mr. Andrews," I said and glanced at the scullion, "Am I interrupting something?"

Mr. Andrews sat up a little straighter and smiled at me. Our first day on board, Mr. Andrews came around to introduce himself to the stewards and stewardesses. "Miss Fairchild," he said, and I was surprised he even remembered my name, "Heavens no. Come have a seat."

He patted the wooden stool next to him and I did as I was told. I noted a little black book sitting on the table next to his bowl.

"As much as I love the food on board the ship," Mr. Andrews continued, "And really, it's wonderful," he added with a smile to the scullion who returned it, "Sometimes I just miss the simple meals. Mr. Collins was kind enough to make me something from home that I haven't had in a long time."

I looked at the scullion who gave me a discreet wink and I decided that I liked that boy very much. He was a few years younger than me, maybe sixteen, but with a handsome face that I was certain left a string of broken hearts back home. I turned to see what was in Mr. Andrews bowl, and I couldn't help but crinkle me nose at the sight of it. It almost looked like porridge, but much lumpier, and not at all appetizing.

Seeing the look on my face, Mr. Andrews laughed.

"I promise it's delicious," he said. "And I'm certain Mr. Collins—"

"John," the scullion corrected.

"—would be happy to make you some if you asked."

I gave the food another apprehensive glance, deciding that I most definitely did not want to eat whatever soggy mess Mr. Andrews had, but also not wanting to offend the architect.

"Well, I did come down here hoping to find something to eat?" I said slowly to John. He nodded and picked up a serrated knife, cutting off a chunk of bread and tossing it in the broiler. I looked at the little pastries longingly.

"Where do you call home Mr. Andrews?" I asked, "By the sounds of it, I'd say Ireland."

He chuckled. "Can't very well hide it, can I?"

"No sir," I replied with a smile. I watched John turn the gas on the range, strike a match, and light the flame below a saucepan, which he poured milk into.

"And you Mr. Collins?" I asked.

"John," he corrected again as he pulled the toasted bread out of the broiler. He went to the pantry and produced a ceramic bowl with tiny, hand painted forget-me-nots on the lip. "And that's just what Mr. Andrews and I were discussing. We're both from Belfast, imagine that." He broke the bread into the bowl, adding a spoonful of sugar and a pinch of cinnamon before pouring hot milk over it. The result was a spongy looking dish, but now that I knew it was only hot milk and bread, I was much more willing to eat it. The scullion slid the bowl towards me.

Mr. Andrews watched as I took a bite, smiling. "What did I say?" he challenged.

"It's very good sir," I replied honestly. It was hot and sweet and just what I needed to settle my stomach that had been in knots for the past few days.

Mr. Andrews chuckled. "Yes, my mother used to make this for us whenever she could. Of course she used hardtack and honey but we loved it regardless."

John went back to baking tart as we talked.

"Have you got any family back home Mr. Andrews?" I asked then felt heat creep into my cheeks because that probably wasn't a very appropriate question to ask a man I barely knew.

Mr. Andrews seemed more than willing to share though. "A wife and my little Elizabeth," he said, "We call her Elba though. She'll be two this year and I can't believe how fast she's grown." He looked down at his bowl, tracing his thumb long the delicate rim absentmindedly. "I hate being away from my little girl for so long. It makes me feel like an incompetent father."

The mouthful of hot bred suddenly felt sticky in my mouth. I swallowed hard.

"I'm sure you're a good father, Mr. Andrews," I said before I could stop myself, "If my father was half the man you are then maybe I—"

I stopped short and looked down accusingly at my bowl of hot milk and toast. What sort of witchcraft had the scullion done to mine and Mr. Andrews food to make us reveal our most personal thoughts? This conversation was better suited for close friends, not for two people who had only just met the day before. I didn't know what it was, but something about Mr. Andrews, or perhaps it was the food, made me want to tell him everything that had been plaguing my mind for the past few years. I wanted to tell him what a wicked man my father was and what a wicked person his daughter turned out to be. I wanted to tell him what awful things Charles and I did and how many people we had hurt in the process. I wanted to confess my sins and receive absolution for what I had done.

I glanced at Mr. Andrews, whose gaze was kind and understanding. Even if he was easy to talk to, he was not the man to save my tainted soul. I wasn't sure if I could ever make up for what I had done, but going to America and starting a new life was the first step to moving forward and leaving everything behind. If I couldn't atone for what I did, perhaps I could run from it.

I made a conscious effort to blink, realizing that I had been staring at John's hands as he popped the desserts out of the tin and onto a cooling rack. I looked at Mr. Andrews again.

"I—I just wish that he had been a better person," I fumbled over my words, embarrassed. "If you're doing the best you can with Elba then you shouldn't be so hard on yourself. She's lucky to have a father who cares so much."

The shipbuilder hesitated, then reached his hand over and gingerly patted my knuckles. It was a simple gesture, but I felt the burn of tears at the back of my eyes. I blinked them away, hating myself for getting so emotional over his kindness. I gave him a smile.

Mr. Andrews sighed, pulling his hand back. "I suppose I should turn in for the night. Mr. Collins, thank you for the meal. Can I escort you back to your room Miss Fairchild?"

"No thank you," I said, "I think I'll stay and finish if that's okay?" I glanced at the scullion who gave me a shrug.

Mr. Andrews bid us goodnight, picked up his black book, and left the main galley for his cabin.

I watched John finish his work before taking trayfulls of tart shells to the cold cellar to keep overnight. He told me stories of trying to catch crayfish in the canals near his home while I ate. After I finished, and after insisting that I could find my way back to my cabin by myself, he turned off the remaining lights of the galley and we said our goodbyes. He made his way below decks while I returned to C Deck.

The hallways were dark and I used my hand as a guide, trailing my fingers along the papered walls until I found my cabin door. The lights were off in our room, and from the soft snoring coming from Violet's bed, I assumed my friend was fast asleep. I changed out of my uniform, stumbling a bit over the dress and using a few choice words when I almost went headlong into the wash basin. I pulled the pins out of my hair and released my corset with a grateful sigh then turned to look at my trunk apprehensively. I took a deep breath to steel myself, then pulled the luggage out from under my bed. I flipped the latches and paused to make sure that the _click_ of the locks didn't wake Violet. I opened the lid and carefully moved aside the remaining dresses, an old journal I hadn't written in for years, an extra pair of boots and a few letters. There, at the bottom of the trunk, sat my reckoning.

I stared at it with loathing as though my hateful gaze could make it shrivel up and disappear altogether, but no matter how long I stared, it remained in my trunk, mocking me.

I slammed the lid closed and I kicked the trunk under my bed again, vowing not to open it until I reached America. Violet snorted and rolled over in her sleep and I decided that it was late enough. I settled into my bed but my mind was so hyperactive with thoughts of Harry and Charles and Mr. Andrews that I found sleep evasive.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

 **April 8th 1912**

We were crowded in one of the cabins on B Deck, Cissie showing us the correct way to tuck bed sheets, as though we hadn't been doing it since we were little girls. I tugged at the collar of my uniform, because twenty or so stewardesses cramped in a suite built for two made for a very stuffy room. Violet stood next to me, looking bored, but politely following Cissie with her eyes. I made a noise between a sigh and a groan as Cissie folded the corner sheet under the mattress to create a tight crease. The demonstration was boring beyond comprehension and I could tick off a number of things that would be less painful. Eviscerating my organs, for one. I could give them to John to serve alongside the _soupe au pistou_.

"Be sure to pull the wrinkles out of the duvet," Cissie was explaining, "They've already been pressed but we don't want our passengers faced with rumpled bed sheets after a long day of traveling, do we ladies?"

"No, ma'am," we all said in unison as Cissie placed the pillows neatly on the bed. I wanted so badly to fling myself on the duvet, just to rest my feet for a moment. Even without passengers boarding we were hard at work in preparations, and the bed beckoned me with its downy appearance. The warm room wasn't helping my exhaustion either.

Cissie explained that the stewards had brought up linens for the beds and had placed a set in each of the cabins. We were to make up all the beds in our respective rooms, which amounted to over twenty beds a stewardess.

"Any questions?" Cissie finally said.

I would slap the girl that was stupid enough to ask something. I wanted desperately to get out of that stifling cabin and I had no problem grappling with the stewardess that stood in my way.

"What should we do with the extra linens?" Mary asked.

I glared at her, reaching up and flicking the back of her head with my fingers.

"Ouch!" she squeaked and reached behind her, rubbing the tender spot. She glared at me but I studiously ignored her, watching our matron as intently as if Cissie were preforming a fan dance with a lettuce leaf. She turned forward again. Beside me, Violet gave me a firm look.

"Extra linens go in closet. There should be about two sets per cabin." Cissie replied, and when no one asked anything else, she clapped her hands and said, "Right! Off you go now!"

We turned and filed out of the cabin, Violet and I paring off and walking forward towards our cabins at the front of B Deck.

"You probably know by now that your little stunt with the officers yesterday have made the rounds on the ship four times over. Everyone's heard about your blunder. I'm surprised Cissie didn't release you this morning before breakfast."

I turned around to see Mary walking after us. My stomach knotted apprehensively. Of course she would feel the need to taunt me about my faux pas.

"Who told you?" I snapped.

"Does it matter?" Mary replied. "Either way I fully expect you to be back on _terra firma_ permanently by the end of the day."

She brushed past us and made for the stairwell that lead to C Deck. I followed her, stopping at the top of the steps as she descended.

"You're not going to tell Cissie, are you?" I asked. If Cissie, or Mr. Andrews, or any other superior caught wind of my misconduct, I'd be sacked. Harry, on the other hand, would likely get a slap on the wrist then ordered to go back to work—the benefit of being a man. I had no such luxury, and thus was genuinely concerned for my standing on the ocean liner. I couldn't afford to miss this crossing to America, and being put on probation was a perfect way for me to do just that.

"I won't have to. She'll find out soon enough, if she hasn't already. Need I remind you that behavior like that is strictly prohibited of a White Star Line employee?" Mary asked, not bothering to turn around and face me. She dropped to the bottom step and disappeared past the ebony wood walls of the C Deck corridor.

I grit my teeth and wheeled on Violet, who had been watching the whole exchange quietly.

"It's not prohibited, just frowned upon!" I hissed and stalked past her towards our cabins.

"I know," Violet said wearily and followed.

"Why does Mary hate me so? She hasn't liked me since the _Oceanic_ , and I haven't done a thing to her," I said and opened the door to our fist cabin. Resting on the bachelor's chest was a stack of white linens, a duvet, and pillow covers. We set to work outfitting the beds, Violet taking one side and me taking the other.

"Maybe that's just it. Maybe she thinks you don't like her because you never try to talk to her," Violet reasoned.

"I don't talk to her because I don't like her," I said and Violet gave me a steady look. A similar look a mother would give to a mouthy child.

"What I'm saying is that you have a strong personality, Lucy. You tend to rub people the wrong way. Perhaps she just got the wrong impression."

"So it's my fault?"

Violet tucked the excess fabric of the bed sheet and we moved on to stuffing the pillows in their cases, careful not to snag the elaborate silk embroidery.

"No, but that's exactly what I'm talking about," Violet replied. "You can be crass and wily and people pick up on those kind of things. Mary's hardworking and rather straightforward. She's a no nonsense person and you are all nonsense. You should try talking to her, being more amiable, I'm sure she'll come around. She's a rather interesting person when you get to know her."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I should have known that asking Violet for advice would lead to a lesson in being charitable. Violet was a good person, perhaps a little too good.

I fell silent, trying not to let her words get to me, but finding myself annoyed at the terms Violet used to describe me. I know she was just being honest, but did she have to be so blunt? I wasn't oblivious. I knew that I said all the wrong things and I always stumbled over myself, but I tried to be a likeable person. For some reason I always fell short.

Ever since my first ship I had watched the first class ladies I waited upon, trying to pattern my behavior after them. They always moved gracefully, but effortlessly, like they were delicate marionettes on strings and God was their puppeteer. Their voices were quiet, ladylike, and they spoke of pleasant things like the new fiction story they had read or the type of tea that was best used as a sleep aid. I tried doing the same by smiling more and being less obtrusive, but it never lasted. My old self that I worked so hard to bury away would claw her way to the surface and the guise was ruined. That's the thing about people, they can pretend all they want, perhaps even convince some people, but all they'll ever be is a liar and no one likes a liar.

Arthur always said I was hopeless excuse for a lady. As much as I hated the man, he was right.

It had been days since Arthur entered my mind; I had been too preoccupied with other things to bother. I remembered a time when I couldn't go more than a few hours without thinking about him. I felt uneasy remembering him again, but he grew like a parasite once he entered my mind and I suddenly couldn't stop thinking about his red hair and his temper and the delicious tension I used to feel between us. I wondered about him now, whether he was looking for me or not, if he had found some other poor girl to deceit, if he was angry at Charles and I or if he even cared…

"Lucy?"

I looked up at Violet, who was watching me curiously. It was then that I noticed that my hands were fisted around a feather pillow, practically squeezing the life out of it. I quickly loosened my grip and muttered an apology, banishing thoughts of my old life. I set the pillow down and we moved to the next cabin, letting my thoughts go anywhere but where they were.

I opened the door and grabbed the sheets off the dresser, unfolding one over the bed. Violet moved to the other side and we set to tucking the corners, when movement outside the cabin caught my eye. I looked to see a uniform, dark and heavy and lined with gold, stride past the open door, then retreat back to the threshold. I smirked and Violet stopped working long enough to look at the officer that had appeared at our cabin door.

"Excuse me ladies," Charles said with a dip of his head towards Violet. "I was wondering if I could have a private word with Miss Fairchild?"

Violet looked at me and I looked back, giving her a small, reassuring smile, despite my own confusion.

Charles had made it very clear we were not to speak with or see each other on this crossing. We both decided that it would be best if we just kept our distance. Breaking this agreement was something _I_ was likely to do, not Charles, so whatever he needed to speak with me about must have been serious. I noticed that he kept his eyes on Violet, avoiding my gaze. His expression was soft, calm, but the muscle in his jaw pulsed and I knew something was bothering him. Charles had always been a serious man, with cultivated character and a quiet demeanor, but I had known him long enough to know the tall tale signs.

Violet's dark eyes flickered between us before she finally nodded. I turned to follow Charles, glancing over my shoulder at her. Her eyes widened slightly, and I knew I would have some explaining to do once this conversation with Charles was over.

He led the way out of the room, with me not more than a few steps behind him wondering what this was all about. As soon as we cleared the threshold and were out of sight, Charles turned and took hold of my upper arm, dragging me down the hallway. Normally I would object, but this was Charles and he did what he wanted. He ducked down the nearest corridor, one that ended in a large window that over looked the port side of the ship, yanking me along. He turned me to face him, hand still firm on my arm as he braced me against the wall.

Charles was never rough, but whatever he was worried about had him clutching my arm like a lifeline. His fingers dug into the skin, the pressure dull but effective.

Not wanting to hear whatever bad news was waiting for me, I sidled the conversation as best I could.

"Good morning _love_ ," I cooed, "Breaking the cardinal rule are we? You must be desperate."

"Don't get cute with me Lucy," Charles said and I should have known better than to try and distract him with shrewd words, "You know I wouldn't be here if it wasn't serious."

He finally dropped his hand and I absent mindedly rubbed my arm. He lifted his peaked cap and raked his fingers through his short brown hair. He glanced out the window towards the port, Southampton seeming miles away through the smog and noise of the port. He looked down at me, then took a step back. He was fidgeting, which was completely unlike him. He either didn't know where to begin or was having a hard time finding the words. I sobered up to listen, knowing that what he was about to say was serious.

"Harry threatened me last night at dinner," he finally said, struggling to keep his voice even. "Seems James said something to him about us. Told me to stay away from you."

I blinked slowly as I registered what Charles was saying to me. I shook my head in disbelief.

"He… _what_?" I asked.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew Harry?" Charles asked. "This changes everything."

I pushed myself away from the wall, brushing past Charles. I pressed my hand to my forehead as I paced the narrow length of the corridor, feeling his eyes on me as I walked. "It changes nothing," I said, rubbing my fingers along my temple. "I read the crew list the night before we boarded. I didn't say anything to you because I was trying to avoid the boat deck specifically to avoid seeing Harry. I didn't plan on running into him yesterday morning…it just happened."

"I asked around," Charles replied, "The stewards said you had a rather…unforgettable reunion."

For the largest ocean liner in the world, gossip traveled quickly on _Titanic_.

"It was a gut reaction," I groaned and finally stopped pacing.

Charles shifted the sleeves of his uniform and crossed his arm, leaning against the wall. He frowned. "How do you two know each other?"

"We grew up together in Barmouth," I muttered.

"Harry was furious for some reason last night. I tried to reason with him but he wouldn't listen, just left in the middle of dinner without an explanation. What happened between you two? Did you say something about us?"

I turned to Charles, narrowing my gaze accusingly. He knew me better than to think I would run off and tell Harry about what we had done. I thought we had more trust than that.

"Of course not," I spat. "I was angry with him yesterday, but he wouldn't take that out on you."

"If you didn't say anything to him then James must have."

I snorted. "Please, James know as much about us as anyone else."

The lines on Charles' face softened and a flicker a worry danced behind his blue eyes. I took a step closer to him and he dropped his chin slightly to look down at me. "We need to be more careful," he continued, "Harry knows something about us that he's not letting on. Something that's got him sullen. You need to talk to him, tonight, since he doesn't seem too keen on talking with me."

"I will," I agreed.

He fell silent for a moment, his eyes flickering over my face. He gave a halfhearted smile, which practically read as elation on a quiet man like Charles. He reached up flicked the bottom of my chin with the hook of his finger.

"What are we going to do now?" he asked.

"Nothing," I replied. "Continue with the plan like before. Harry is only a minor nuisance."

Charles sighed and I turned away from him, putting space between us. I leaned against the wall, hands folded behind my back. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette, rolling with between his fingers.

"Do you still have it?" he asked.

"In my trunk, under my bed," I replied automatically.

"Do you care?" Charles asked and indicated to the cigarette in his hand. Charles didn't smoke often but he was restless with everything going on, and I knew that a smoke would do him good.

In fact, it would do me good too.

"By all means," I said with a dismissive wave of my hands. "But if the stewards find you smoking in the corridor, they'll have a fit."

He lit the cigarette and sucked in a deep breath. "I will rest so much easier once we're on open water. I'm constantly feeling apprehensive sitting in port. It makes me anxious."

"Me too," I said and beckoned with my two fingers at his cigarette, hoping to bum and smoke. He passed the cigarette to me and the moment the smoke hit my lungs and warmed my chest, I felt a sense of relief. I gave it back.

"How are you really?" Charles asked. He looked down at me with hooded eyes, lips pursed. He knew I hated that question, because when people asked that question, they never expected a truthful answer. I could never say that I constantly felt like I was drowning in a sea of emotions, or that I was sick to my stomach for an entirely different reason than being at sea. They only wanted to hear that I was doing perfectly well, thank you very much. This time though, I was grateful for his concern, even if I still settled on the lie I told everyone else, including myself.

"I'm capital Charlie," I replied.

He searched my face for honesty but I knew he wouldn't find it. I learned from the best, after all. Dishonesty was second nature to me. He eventually nodded and straightened from his lax position against the wall. I followed suit, brushing my hands over my pinafore, noting that that gesture was quickly becoming a nervous habit of mine.

"Tonight," Charles reminded me. "Harry is down in the cargo hold with Joe right now. Find out how much he knows. I'll have a chat with James."

"Be nice to him," I warned.

"No promises," Charles replied. "Try to keep your head down for the rest of the voyage. I know understated is not your forte but we can't risk any more slip ups."

"Aye, sir," I mocked.

He didn't reply, obviously not finding me as humorous as I did. He took another drag on the cigarette then strode to the end of the corridor peering around the corner. He glanced over his shoulder at me, "Take care of yourself, _love_."

He was the one mocking me now and I couldn't help but grin. He strode off down the hall, leaving me standing alone in the skinny corridor. I sighed and moved to the brass framed windows, peering out over the port. It was another grey day, but not nearly as chilly as it had been. Dock workers shuffled around the wharfs, their skin and clothes black with coal and dirt. Smoke like ribbon rose from a pub across the way, and could hear the gears of a crane shift as it loaded cargo. Gulls cried, their sporadic screaming rivaled only the sound of the water tumbling over itself.

I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the cool glass, realizing too late that the oil from my skin would leave prints on the window and I would have to clean it again.

I didn't know what I was going to say to Harry. I should have known that his presence on _Titanic_ wouldn't be a subtle one. He was too much of a hot head to quietly sit back and leave things as they were, and James gossiped more than any woman I knew, and together they were trouble. It was all happening too fast. I wanted to by myself some time to think things over, but Charles and I couldn't afford that right now. I had to see what Harry knew about us, what had him so riled up, and then I needed to find a way to fix it.

I sighed and dragged myself away from the window, using the crew elevators to take myself as far as F Deck. From there it was another flight of stairs down, but I made a wrong turn and had to back track. In the three days since being on _Titanic_ , I had become fairly familiar with the ship, though I obviously needed to explore the lower decks more before we left port. I found my way again, walking all the way forward until I reached the cargo hold.

The hold was cold and damp and smelled of sawdust. Light poured in the open hatch above, where the larger cargo was being lowered. Crates and boxes sat stacked on top of each other, outfitted with netting to keep the cargo in place. Men paced about moving supplies and I pressed myself against the steel bulkhead to keep out of their way. I spotted Harry talking with an older officer at the far end of the hold. I waited until he looked up from the manifest and spied me from over the tops of the boxes. He turned and said something to his companion, then maneuvered his way around cases of rubber, lace, tea and bulbs as he came towards me.

My heart pounded at the sight of him. I still couldn't believe he was here, with me. A bittersweet sensation filled my chest as he approached. I knew so much about him from our younger years together and yet he seemed like he was a complete stranger to me. He was the same Harry I knew before he left, but now there was a mysterious part to him that I wanted so badly to understand. He was nostalgic and new at the same time.

He stopped in front of me and the smell of sandalwood wafting off him was familiar.

"You shouldn't be down here."

"I shouldn't do a lot of things," I replied cheekily, looking up at him. "Can you spare a moment? I need to talk to you."

"That depends, are you going to slap me again?"

There was the Harry I knew.

"I'll try to refrain," I said dryly.

Harry looked at me steadily and I shifted under his gaze. A shipman passed by us and Harry reached out a hand and grabbed the man by his uniform. The poor bloke looked puzzled as he said, "Sir?"

"Tell Officer Boxhall I'll just be a minute," Harry said, keeping his eyes on me. I turned to look around the cargo hold, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Remind him about that note I made on the manifest for Arnold and Co. and the lashings needs to be tighter over the barrels of cork from Welles Fargo," he finally looked at the man, "Yes?"

"Yes sir," the shipman replied and Harry released him. He weaved around the supplies towards the other officer to relay the message, but not before shooting Harry a dirty look over his shoulder that did not go unnoticed by me.

"Make it quick," Harry said to me and raised his arm to guide me out of the cargo hold. His fingers were a whisper on my back, but I still felt them through the material of my dress and chemise and corset. A tingle ran down my spine at the close contact.

Once we were out of the cargo hold, and a respectable distance away from invasive eyes and ears, Harry turned to me and waited.

I bit my lip.

"I suppose an apology is in order," I said.

"I suppose it is."

He stood rigid, the features on his face hard to understand. I never had that problem with Charles. He was always careful to appear calm and collected, but little habits gave him away; the clench of his jaw, licking his lips, fidgeting, his eyes always told a different story than what his tone did, and of course, pulling out a cheap cigarette when he was troubled. Harry was different. He was guarded and still. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't want me or anyone else to know. He had always been like that, difficult to read, and standing here trying to gauge what was on his mind was like trying to understand a foreign language. I was reminded of how much that use to irk me when we were children.

I sighed, "Don't be cross with me Harry. I didn't mean for that to happen. I was just shocked when I saw you and when you didn't immediately recognize me…"

"You've changed," Harry muttered, "A lot."

"Well you haven't changed a bit," I replied and something passed over his face, quick as a wink. "You have the same eyes as your mother, did you know that? When I was looking at you all I could see was her and then it all came back to me—how sad I was the day you left, and how angry it made me, and how lost I felt afterwards," my voice caught and I hastily finished to keep from getting too emotional, "You abandoned us, Harry, you deserved a smack across the cheek."

"I suppose I did," Harry replied without a shred of remorse in his voice and I realized that I've made him more upset.

"You're here now," I said, trying to undo the damage, "And I'm here now, and that's all that matters, right?"

He didn't answer me. Just crossed his arms over his chest, peering at me beneath his peaked cap. He looked awfully handsome in his uniform, and even though there were a dozen other things on my mind, his intimidating appearance pushed its way to the forefront. How I had missed staring into his dark eyes. As a teenager he had been a bit awkward, crooked teeth and a nose that was too big, but the promise of a fine face had always been there. It just took a few years for Harry to grow into himself.

"What's going on between you and Lights?" he finally asked.

I lifted my shoulders in a pitiful shrug, suddenly feeling very weary. I was tired of this talk about Charles and Harry and myself. I just wanted my old friend back. I wanted to make jokes that Harry would roll his eyes at, or get into mischief and watch him talk his way out of trouble. It had been years since we had seen each other, and yet all he wanted to do was talk about things that I didn't have an answer for. I wanted to know where he had been since Barmouth, why he never wrote me, if his favorite thing to eat was still roasted hazelnut. There was so much that had to be said between us, and yet we were stuck talking about Charles.

"Can we not do this now?" I sighed.

"I thought you wanted to talk."

"I do, but not about this and certainly not here," I replied, my voice on the brink of begging.

"Fine," Harry said and for a moment I thought that was the end of our conversation and that he would walk away. He didn't. "I'm off for a few hours tomorrow night. Meet me at the gangplank? We could get off this damned ship and talk and see the town."

"What's there to see? It's Southampton."

Harry sighed as he fixed me with a tired stare. "Alright," he said gruffly, annoyed, and this time he did turn away and walk back towards the cargo hold.

I cursed my loose tongue and went after him. Why did I always have to say things that drove people away? I should have just kindly accepted his offer like I wanted to, instead of being snippy like I was. "Wait, I'm sorry," I said and reached for his hand to keep him from getting away from me. "Please. It's a lovely idea."

Harry turned and glanced down at my hands clasped around his wrist, then up at my face again.

"Eight o'clock then, on the gangplank."

"Eight o'clock," I repeated and I couldn't help the smile on my face.

"Now off with you," Harry said and nodded down the corridor, "Stewardesses shouldn't be down here. It could be dangerous."

I finally dropped his hand and nodded, turning to go back to the upper decks. I paused at the stairwell and looked over at Harry as he walked back to the hold, and I could have sworn I saw a hint of a smile on his face. I grinned to myself, the prospect of spending time with Harry too exciting to contain myself. A night out to reacquaint ourselves and before saying goodnight I could ask him what he knew, and with any luck I'd be one step closer to mending this prosperous circumstance I found myself in.

I took the steps two at a time, one hand on the rail, the other lifting my skirt to free my legs enough for the long strides. I stuck with the stairs this time to get back to B Deck, and by the time I reached D Deck, I was out of breath and panting. I hurried up the next flight of stairs, knowing that I had been away from Violet longer than I initially intended. If we were to finish the beds in any sort of a timely manner, we would have to work twice as fast. When I reached B Deck, I was out of breath and my hair hand come loose from its pins. I tucked the stray strands behind my ear, checking each cabin as I walked the length of the deck trying to find Violet. I stopped at room B59, on the starboard side of the ship, where Violet was finishing with the bed.

"V," I panted, "I'm sorry that took so long. I lost track of—"

I stopped short as I entered the room, seeing Annie Robinson on the other side of the bed, helping Violet. They pulled the folds out of the duvet and Violet gave me a scathing look as Annie went to set the pillows on the bed.

"Where have you been?" she asked, "I did eight beds by myself! The rest of the stewardesses finished their cabins and I had to ask Annie to come help me."

She had her arms crossed over her chest, her face pinched with a mixture of irritation and exhaustion. I looked at Annie, who kept her head down and pretended not to listen, though I knew she was likely hanging on every word. Her face was pink with embarrassment.

"V, I'm sorry," I said again.

"Cissie asked where you were. I didn't want to tell her that you went off to talk with the second officer, so I said you were in our berth cabin because you were feeling dizzy. I told her that you just needed sleep and to not bother you."

I felt a wave a guilt rush over me. Violet was devotedly religious and I knew that she was against dishonesty of any sort, especially to a superior, but she still lied to keep my reputation intact. I was grateful for her loyalty but ashamed that I had taken advantage of it. I felt terrible. Violet was a better friend than I ever deserved. How could I have been so insensitive? All thoughts of her and our responsibilities as stewardesses had vanished from my mind the moment I saw Charles. I didn't mean to leave all the work for her but I had been so selfishly preoccupied with my own troubles, I completely forgot about the trouble _I_ caused for her.

"I am sorry," I tried again. Violet stalked past me, Annie following close behind and giving me a sympathetic look as she passed. I trailed after them as they exited the cabin and moved down the hallway to the next room. "Let me do the rest of the beds," I said, trying to fix my mistake. "It wasn't fair of me to run off like that."

"No it wasn't," Violet remarked as she and Annie unfolded the linens.

"What can I do to make it up to you?" I asked.

Violet glanced at Annie.

"I think it would be best if you just went back to our bunk," Violet said. "Annie and I only have a few more beds before we're done and that way you legitimize my story."

"But—"

"Just _go_ Lucy," Violet said firmly. Her voice wasn't harsh or angry, more disappointed if anything, and I felt the bitter bite of guilt again. It would have been better if she just yelled at me, told me I was selfish, and made me finish the rest of the beds by myself, but Violet was a decent person and wouldn't stoop to my level. I nodded and quietly left the room, crossing the deck to the port side where our berth cabin was. I slipped inside and went to my bed, laying there for the next few hours and wallowing in regret and self hatred at the way I had acted towards my friend.

I kept telling myself that tomorrow would be better. I would apologize again to Violet, and perhaps talk John into letting me have a bit of bakers chocolate to give to her as an apology, then Harry and I would spend the evening together and I would finally know where my friend had been for the past fifteen years. We would share a few laughs like we used to, talk about old Mr. Walcott and his raspberries, or reminisce about taking the dingy out into the bay with George. I would reassure Charles that our secrets were safe and we could continue on like normal. Everything would be made right, I was certain of it.

Violet entered our cabin a bit later. She didn't talk to me, just quietly said her prayers and went to bed. I rolled over and tried to sleep, repeating the same word over in my head.

 _Tomorrow._


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

 **April 9th 1912**

"It's hopeless," I whined as Evelyn ran a brush through my hair. "Forget it, I'm not going."

Evelyn yanked the brush harder than necessary, and I let out yelp. I learned my lesson, and quit complaining while she worked my hair.

"If you would hold still then I could get these pins to stay but you keep moving," she scolded as she set down the brush and attempted, yet again, to twist my hair into a pompadour. Unfortunately having soft, fine hair did nothing to help the pins stay in place and the finished result kept falling out. I had attempted to do my own hair before Evelyn, but after many curse words and almost throwing my brush at the vanity mirror, Violet had fetched her to help. If anyone was going to make my hair look half decent, it was her.

I flipped the page of _Lady's Realm_ that Evelyn had brought to keep my quiet—though that only lasted a few minutes before I started voicing my disdain at what a frivolous thing _hairstyles_ were. The publication was a few months old. Sewing patterns and remedies for freckles winked up at me from the pages of the magazine. I paused at a picture of a debutante whose hair was voluptuous and thick, staring at it.

Evelyn looked over my shoulder at the image.

"Don't worry Lucy darling," she encouraged, "We'll have you looking like a Gibson Girl yet."

I rolled my eyes and snapped the magazine shut, tossing it onto Violet's bed. She picked it up and began thumbing through the issue. We hadn't quiet mended our fight. Violet had gone from completely ignoring me to acknowledging my presence but still not speaking to me. A bit of bitter chocolate sat at the head of her bed, a peace offering gone untouched. I was both annoyed and impressed that she could stay angry at me like this, considering forgiveness was one of the requirements to enter through the pearly gates of heaven…at least I thought it was. It had only been a day since our spat, but I already missed her talking to me. We fitted the gimbal lamps on the port side cabins today in silence and it nearly killed me. I didn't have many friends, especially friends who were women, and I couldn't afford to lose another because I had been selfish.

My gaze slid back to my reflection in the mirror.

I had never been bothered with my appearance. I grew up with a laudanum addicted father who didn't know the difference between a chemise and a tea gown. What little style etiquette I learned, I learned by watching some of the older girls in town. Tonight I cared though. It was the first time I would have a decent conversation with Harry in years. I wanted show him that I wasn't that little girl from Barmouth anymore but as I gazed at my reflection I was left wondering if he would ever see me as more than a childhood friend. Which led me to wonder if _I_ would ever see him as more than that. It was hard imagining young, stubborn Harry Lowe standing watch on the bridge, responsible and serious and bowing to authority. He was never one to do as he was told and thought of him in a starched uniform made me smile.

Evelyn forced a few pins into my hair, abandoning the pompadour and settling on a simple chignon instead. She pulled out a white ribbon from the vanity drawer and wrapped it around my bun. She tugged a few wisps of hair free before stepping back and admiring her handiwork. I turned my head to the side to get a good look at it, and despite my initial aversion, I had to admit that my hair had likely never looked better.

"How do I look?" I asked and turned around to look at Evelyn and Violet, hoping for some kind of reassurance. I had a navy blue wool skirt on that had a trail of buttons down the back and a white blouse. It wasn't anything ornamental, but it was the best I had. The white ribbon in my hair was a nice touch, but I wasn't sure it was enough.

What I would give for a proper evening gown.

Violet looked up from the magazine, taking in my appearance. She turned to Evelyn.

"She needs some color on her lips," Violet said and I scowled at her, but she was already flipping through the magazine again.

Evelyn looked at me. "Well?" she asked and I shrugged my shoulders. She looked rather helpless too, neither of us really considering makeup. It was a thing of the past; no one wore it anymore except theater actors.

"Oh for heavens sake," Violet grumbled and slid off her bed. She pulled her own trunk out from under her bed, rummaging through it before pulling out a small compact of lip stain. She unscrewed the lid as she moved to stand in front of me, carefully applying a small amount to my lips with her finger tip. I turned a checked my reflection again. The color was subtle, and it was odd seeing my lips look red, but I instantly liked the way it made my gaze drift to my mouth.

Evelyn regarded Violet with raised eyebrows.

"Lipstick," she said, surprised, "How progressive of you."

Violet shot Evelyn a stern look. "American women wear it all the time," she argued. "It looks nice."

"Well I think it's absolutely brilliant," I commented, "Thank you V."

Violet ignored me, pushing her trunk under her bed and laying back on her mattress, reading through _Lady's Realm_ some more.

I stood up, brushing my hands over my skirt nervously. Evelyn picked up on the motion. She sat down on my bed, with a very coy look on her face. "I never thought I would see day our fearless Lucy would be at a loss over an officer. He must very special, aye?" she asked.

I shot her a look. "Oh please," I scoffed and dropped my hands. The truth was I felt like my insides were buzzing with anticipation but I would never let on that I was feeling that way. I wasn't sure how tonight was going to go. Would Harry be interested in anything I had to say? Would it be like it was before or had so much time passed between us that conversation would be hard to come by? I couldn't bear the idea of not playfully bantering with Harry like we used to, but the possibility of it not being the same as it was before was too real. I didn't know whether to prepare myself to spend an evening with Harry, or a stranger.

I swallowed hard, my nerves in such a frenzy that I almost felt sick. It would be a miracle if I could make it through tonight unscathed.

"He is rather handsome, isn't he?" Evelyn said.

I felt my cheeks flush and I quickly busied myself with the shawl laying over the foot of my bed. "I suppose he is," I muttered, picking up the grey shawl and wrapping it around my shoulders in lieu of a coat for the night.

Evelyn gave an exasperated sigh and flung herself back on my bed. "You have all the luck," she murmured. "It reads like a Shakespearian play. Two long lost lovers defying all odds to find each other again on the grandest ship in the world. Dramatic, romantic, euphoric—"

"We are _not_ lovers," I snapped. Harry was the one happy thing that came out of my youth, but I could never go as far as to say we were anything more than childhood friends.

"All we need now is a decent tragedy or a dark secret or a wild scandal." She rolled over, bending her elbow and resting her cheek on her fisted hand. "Then you would give Mr. William Shakespeare a run for his money."

 _A decent tragedy or a dark secret or a wild scandal? I have all three._

The words flashed through my mind but I managed to stop them before they came pouring out of my mouth. I adjusted my shawl. "If this is a play then Officer Lowe can be Duke Orsino, you can be Viola and I shall be Olivia."

"But the Duke loves Olivia," Evelyn pointed out.

"At first, yes," I replied, "But then he falls in love with Viola."

"Doesn't she dress as a man?" Evelyn asked, crinkling her nose.

"But she gets the Duke in the end."

Evelyn shrugged her shoulders and flopped back down on the bed again. "I wouldn't mind marrying a Duke…or an officer for that matter," she sighed longingly and closed her eyes. "I would like that very much."

We all would. We would all love to marry someone above our class so we longer had to trudge through the workforce, but that only ever happened in fairytales. How very different my life would have been had I married a rich man at twenty, instead of being whisked away from Barmouth with Charles. I was forever grateful that he rescued me from my old life, but had I married rich instead of working my way from ship to ship then four years later I would be holding a first class ticket on _Titanic_ , rather than posing as a stewardess. I would have had enough money to pay off my father's debts, by myself a beautiful dress and attend a lavish party thrown by the socialites.

My thoughts drifted to the contents of my trunk and my gaze slipped to my bed, where Evelyn was too close to my secret for comfort. A little over one thousand pounds stashed in the bottom of my trunk begged to be looked at, just so I could reassure myself—for the umpteenth time—that it was still there. In the dark space under my bed, the banknotes mocked me with intimidating possibilities. Though only half was mine, it was still more money than these girls could ever hope to earn working as stewardesses. It was more than enough money to make me disappear once I reached America. It was more money than I needed, but every last bit I deserved, and yet I still wanted nothing to do with it.

Another wave of uneasiness washed over me. I was nervous to meet Harry, sick with guilt about the money and desperate for Charles and I to leave port so this could all be nothing but a distant memory. I took a breath to steady my emotions, reminding myself to focus on one thing at a time. Tonight, it was Harry. Tomorrow, it was the passengers and the depart. The next day? Well, no one was promised a tomorrow, let alone a following day, but with my luck it was nothing to look forward too.

"I should be going," I finally said, feeling my mood deflate the longer I stood contemplating. I bent over and tugged the laces of my boots tight before straightening my shawl and nervously flicking the hair out of my face. I stared at my cabin door for a moment, mustering the courage I needed for the night. Evelyn wished me luck when I finally left for the gangway. Violet said nothing.

* * *

Harold felt positively stupid because it took three tries before he could properly tie his tie. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him tonight, he was never this scatterbrained. It wasn't nerves, because Harold Lowe did _not_ get nervous around women.

Harold scowled at the crooked knot at the base of his neck. He loosened his tie once more and tried again.

He was most definitely _not_ nervous.

His heavy coat hung over the back of his desk chair. He yanked it up and pulled it on as he exited his cabin. He crossed the officer's deck to the port side, passing the smoke room as he went. He paused outside the door as the low rumble of laughter spilled into the hall. He could hear Henry Wilde's deep voice and smell the sharp scent of fresh tobacco; a game of poker seemed to be underway. Harold brushed off the slight jealousy that nagged at him, reminding himself that even if he _had_ been invited to play a hand, he already had plans for the night.

James rounded the corner and Harold straightened away from the smoke room door. The six officer glanced Harold up and down, saying, "Where are you off to?"

"Solid ground," Harold replied, "Thought I might catch a drink tonight."

"Brilliant!" James said, grinning, "Give me a chance to change and I'll join you."

" _Alone_ ," Harold said sharply.

James just shrugged his shoulders at the rejection, obviously not miffed by it. Harold silently wished he could be more like that.

"Right then," James answered, "Have a good night, _alone_."

He emphasized the last work with a smirk and Harold rolled his eyes. James continued off down the corridor to his own bunk, calling over his shoulder, "Cheerio!"

Harold waved James off, walking the length of the deck towards the firs class entrance.

He hadn't told the other officers about meeting with Lucy tonight for a number of reasons. The most obvious being that Charles would likely not take kindly to the idea if he found out; especially after what happened the other night at dinner. Harold had been deliberately avoiding the second officer since the incident, and thankfully the other officers seemed pressed to ignore it ever happened. If they caught wind of Harold meeting with Lucy, he had a sneaking suspicion he would never hear the end of it from them, especially since they already assumed he'd rather keep the company of a man than a woman—thanks to James. They'd probably congratulate him for finding his manhood once again, and he didn't want to kind of annoying, unwarranted attention. He just wanted a quiet night to spend with a woman he hadn't seen in years, without his companions ridicule.

Harold turned down the corridor towards the gangplank, where Lucy was standing, waiting for him. She smiled weakly when she saw him. As he approached, her hands fisted in the fabric of her wrap nervously, and Harold couldn't help but feel overdressed and a bit silly for it. She looked lovely though, with her hair done up and her eyes bright with anticipation. It was the third time they had spoken since that day on the boat deck, and he still found himself surprised at how grown up she was. It both intrigued and saddened him knowing that she had matured so much but he had missed out on crucial years of her life. He paused at the gangway door, allowing a smile as he looked down at her.

"Hello Harry," she greeted quietly and her accent, _their_ accent, brought back a flood of homesickness he hadn't felt in years. He didn't realize how much he missed people tapping their 'r's when they spoke his name.

"Hello," he replied, softly.

They stood there a moment, Harry quietly taking in the features of her face. Older, sharper, and if he wasn't mistaken, a bit tired looking. Up close he could see the light blue shadows under her eyes like small bruises. She smiled despite them.

"Shall we?" she asked and Harold cleared his throat, stepping back and putting some distance between them.

They descended down the gangplank. There was a biting chill in the air, even more so evident with the breeze coming off the Solent. Harold shoved his hands in his pockets to keep the cold at bay as they walked through the docks towards town. The pub at the port was loud and smoky and smelled of stale beer and sweat as they passed. Billiard balls cracked against one another, interrupting a very lively and very off key round of "Wild Rover" that a group of Irishmen had started singing. As they passed the large glass windows, Lucy peered into the pub and laughed.

Harold watched her pause at the window and watch the men as they swayed on their bar stools singing. She turned to him.

"They're having a jaunty time, yeah?" she asked and he nodded.

They continued on their way, the port melting in Southampton town. It was late and dark as they walked down the main road, St. Michaels church casting an ominous shadow as they passed under the tracery windows and tall spire. Most of the shops, with the exception of the alehouses, had locked up for the night, and a few stragglers staggered home.

"I suppose this was poor planning on my part," Harold confessed as they passed a vendor packing up his cart for the night. He watched as the man replaced his jars of pickled eel before dropping the makeshift awning.

Typically Harold would try to have more tact; maybe sit down for tea instead of wandering a dirty port town at night, but he had wanted to get off the ship one last time before she set sail and it was hard imagining Lucy sitting quietly at a café for more than twenty minutes. He glanced at her, hoping for some indication that she wasn't completely displeased with the night that was already turning out to be less than ideal.

She didn't answer, and Harold couldn't tell if the look on her face was curious or cautious. Inside his pockets he rubbed his hands against the rough fabric of his coat. He had a thousand questions burning in the back of his mind, but they walked in silence. He didn't know where to start and it seemed that as soon as he settled on a topic of conversation, he forgot how to from words. He cleared his throat for the second time that night, telling himself that now was not the time to choke. He had never been quiet around Lucy before, so why was it all of a sudden so hard for him to say anything?

"It's—" Lucy started to say just as Harold asked, "Do you—?"

Lucy grinned sheepishly and Harold indicated for her to continue, his face burning. He was grateful for the night that kept the blush hidden.

"I was just going to say that Southampton isn't anything like Barmouth, is it?" she asked and waved her hand at the cobbled street and sandwiched brick buildings. "Not exactly rocky beaches and bakestones."

Harold snorted. "No, not exactly," he replied.

"Do you ever miss home?" she asked carefully.

Harold pursed his lips, now understanding why he had been so closemouthed. Years and years of trying to forget and now he was asked to remember. "No," he answered truthfully.

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. She sighed, "I miss the country side. I love the open ocean and visiting different ports, but I miss the hills and the bridge and the sunsets. I can never see the sunsets properly in the cities…too many buildings blocking the view," A few heartbeats passed before she added, "I don't miss the people though."

He nodded understandingly.

Lucy looked at him, tucking her shawl against her body and lacing her fingers behind her back. She leaned towards him. "You remember how we met, don't you?" she asked, her tone lighter, mischievous.

"Of course I do," he said with a grin as he recalled the memory, "You should have just kissed Fritz, you know," Harold said and Lucy twisted her lips in a frown.

"He was two inches shorter than me and had a lisp!" she said with a laugh. "That poor boy. I wasn't very nice to him, was I?"

From what Harold could remember, Rodger Fritz was an awkward, pimply teenager that gawked at just about anything on two legs. As Lucy told it, he had tried cornering her behind the butchers shop one afternoon for a kiss. She had managed to escape his ambush and make a break for the train tracks, but Fritz followed her all the way to the bridge. To hide, she climbed over the edge and shimmed her way down the support beams to wedge herself between the trusses, just under the two drawbridge spans. Fritz ran right over her while George and Harold, in their dingy, passed beneath her on their way to the estuary to fish. She leaped from the bridge into their boat, rocking the dingy violently and almost tossing the two boys into the water. She landed awkwardly and sprained her ankle, and when they returned to shore George had carried her all the way back to town.

She always said a sprained ankle was worth not having to kiss Rodger Fritz. The fact that George Lowe, the most liked boy in town, had carried her home was an unexpected but lovely perk.

"I have to say, it was the oddest thing seeing a gangly girl drop into our boat," Harold chuckled, "Especially because she was so happy about it."

Lucy laughed again. "You would be happy too if you managed to worm your way out of kissing Fritz," she said then added, "And I was _not_ gangly."

They crossed the street and Lucy let out a small gasp of surprise. She grabbed hold of Harold's sleeve and led him towards a cemetery down the road a ways. She paused at the gate, looking at Harold with an eyebrow raised in challenge.

His eyes flickered between the tombstones and her expecting gaze.

"You can't be serious," he muttered.

Lucy just flashed him that smirk of hers, one that told him that she had already made up her mind. She pushed through the wrought iron gate and started along the gravel path that meandered through the graveyard. Harold followed a few steps after her, closing the gate behind them.

"Isn't this a bit…morbid?" Harold asked.

Lucy looked over her shoulder at him. "There's nothing wrong with reminding yourself of what you have to look forward to."

"Death?" Harold questioned skeptically as he walked after her.

"Exactly," Lucy replied. "Besides, everything else is closed and I like looking at the names on the tombstones."

Harold rolled his eyes, and tugged at his collar as he did so. He didn't like being in the cemetery. It made him uncomfortable. He suddenly felt very warm, even under the cool blanket of night.

"Only you would see the appeal of walking among the dead," Harold said as they passed graves adorned with crosses. He eyed a plot with fresh peonies laid in the grass.

"Don't tell me you're frightened?" Lucy asked as she paused in front of a stone plaque to read the epitaph.

Harold scoffed, "Never," he replied.

Lucy looked over at him and stepped closer, seeming to search his face. He kept still, frowning slightly as he tried to figure out what she was looking for. They were close enough for him to feel her breath tickle his neck. His Adams apple bobbed in his throat, his heart suddenly seeming to thump louder than necessary.

Her lips quirked in a smile. "Still the same boy I knew back in Wales," she sighed, calling out his false bravado. She resumed her walk among the tombstones.

Harold waited until she was a few steps ahead of him before he began to follow her. He tried to shake off the strange feeling in his stomach that her close proximity brought on. That, and the annoyance at her not so discreet challenge inflicted. He wasn't frightened but the last time he had been in a cemetery was at George's funeral. He didn't want to think about that day that was too bright and sunny for a wake, or the fact that they were lowering an empty casket because George's body was never recovered, or that no matter how hard he tried Harold couldn't seem to make the tears stop.

"I'm almost thirty," he commented to distract himself, "I'm as much of a boy as you are."

He finally shed his coat, the heavy material suddenly feeling very constricting. He moved his hands to his trouser pockets and settled his coat in the crook between his forearm and hip.

Lucy dragged her fingers along the cracked stone of a grave marker. She turned to face him, leaning over the tombstone and bearing her weight on her hands as they rested on the stone.

"Age doesn't make a man, Harry," she replied dully, "It's been over ten years but I still see the little boy that got so angry when he was caught stealing the communion wine from Father Reese."

"That little rat Tom Weller put me up to it," Harold growled and stepped closer to the tombstone so that it was between them, remembering the dare from when he was twelve. "I would have made a clean getaway if he hadn't sold me out."

Lucy just laughed and walked away and Harold felt his temper flare. He _wasn't_ the little boy he used to be. That child was naïve and stupid and angry and sad all at once. He had no direction in his life and was so unsure of _everything_. Harold watched Lucy's retreating form, remembering how infuriating she could sometimes be. Then, with a prick of realization, he knew she was baiting him. She did it all the time as a girl, trying to get a rise out of him. It worked almost every time.

He sighed and followed her.

"Fine," he conceded, "If I'm still a boy than you are still a little girl."

Lucy turned on him so suddenly he almost ran into her. She grinned up at him, pulling her shawl around her shoulders.

"I am neither boy, nor girl, nor woman," she said gently.

Harold pursed his lips. "Then what are you?"

She seemed to ponder the question a moment, glancing around the cemetery.

"Have you been to Calcutta?" she finally asked.

Slightly confused, Harold said, "Yes," slowly. He mostly made runs up and down the African coast line, but he had made a few trips around the Cape of Good Hope and had gone as far as the Andaman Sea.

"And you know those beastly saltwater crocodiles that sun themselves on the bank of the Hooghly?" she continued and Harold nodded. "I am one of those. Big, with ugly scarred flesh and teeth so wicked looking they could take a man's arm off with one bite." She lifted her hands and imitated having crocodile teeth with her fingers. Her shawl slipped from one arm. "Yes?" she asked.

Harold looked at her. Pale skin with dark brows. A few freckles. Slightly upturned nose. No nasty teeth.

"No," he replied.

Lucy dropped her hands back to her side and shrugged, pulling her grey wool wrap back into place. She moved to continue on through the graveyard, boots crunching in the gravel, but Harold didn't follow her.

"Can we go? Please?" he asked. She looked over her shoulder at him and he was careful to keep his face passive. She nodded and he led the way out of the cemetery.

She had been there the day of George's funeral—half the town had attended. After the burial Harold didn't want to return home for the wake, so he and Lucy went to the old cottonwood tree that grew on the far end of town. They climbed up into the branches, sunlight filtering through the leaves of the massive tree. They sat opposite each other, Harold remembered, and Lucy had tried to distract him with stories. He finally snapped at her to be quiet. He wanted company, but he also wanted silence. So they sat together for a few hours until the sun dipped low in the sky and Lucy's father had stumbled up the hill to retrieve his daughter. She climbed down and helped her drunken father home, leaving Harold by himself in the tree. When everyone was gone, he started crying and he didn't remember stopping until his throat burned and his eyes were rubbed raw.

He was relieved when they finally made it out on the main road. It was late, and the only people out on the streets now were the homeless, wretched, the drunks and a few prostitutes in the shadows. Southampton was a nice town during the day, but ports tended to gather a certain type of crowd. A less than desirable crowd that operated at night. Lucy stuck close to Harold's side as they walked back to the ship, slipping her hand around his bicep as he led the way. It was quiet again, between them, and Lucy hummed the chorus to "Wild Rover" as they walked. Harold was grateful for a bit of noise to fill the silence.

Lucy stopped her humming. "That's the boarding house me and the rest of the stewardesses stayed at before answering our summons," she commented, pointing to a stone building a few blocks away from the docks.

"Looks dour," he replied.

Lucy smiled fondly. "Quite the opposite," she answered, "I have good memories of that place. Everything was so simple when I was staying at the boarding house. Before all—" she stopped suddenly.

"Before all what?" Harold replied.

"Well, before all this," she said and indicated to him.

His brows furrowed as he frowned. "You mean before you knew I was on _Titanic_? Before I found out about you and Lights."

Her face paled and beneath the grey light of the moon, she looked ghostly. She turned away from him, watching two curious figures disappear down a side alley. She frowned.

"You knew I was going to bring it up soon or later," Harold said firmly.

She looked back at him, eyes sharp. They stopped at _Titanic's_ berth, under the shadow of the massive liner. The gangplank stretched before them, waiting, but neither of them made a move.

"Have at it then," Lucy said, her voice harsh. Her emotions switched faster than a light bulb blinking out and the result was just as severe. Whatever was happening between her and Charles was fiercely private and the look in her eyes told Harold that she would not give up their secret so easily. She had promised a chance to talk to him, though she never promised she would make it easy. "Are you going to tell me that I've made a terrible mistake?" Lucy continued when he didn't say anything. "Because I already know that I have. You have too, Harry. You should have just stayed away from us."

Harold reached his hand up, running his fingers over his mouth and scratching his chin. He took a step back from her, trying to rein in his temper before he spoke.

"Me? _You_ should be staying away from him!" he snapped. "Jesus, Lucy, I thought you had more sense than that."

"We had _no choice!_ " Lucy hissed.

Harold raked his fingers through his hair, tugging on the thick locks. They were already getting nowhere and he should have known that this conversation would inevitably take a wrong turn from the beginning. They more resembled two stray dogs snapping at each other on the street, than two friends trying to talk civilly.

Harold drew a deep breath through his nose.

"Listen, I'm not here to reprimand you," he said, his voice growing softer. "Or to judge. I hate the idea of you two together and I don't understand why you would get involved in something so convoluted. I just want the truth. I want to hear it from your own mouth. If you tell me you love him, then I'll leave it alone. I'll leave you alone."

Lucy's frown turned unsure.

"I—What?" she asked, her voice hitching in confusion. "Love him? What are you talking about?"

Harold blinked. "Your…your affair with Lights…" he said dubiously.

Lucy's furrowed brow softened, her lips twisting from a snarl to a hesitant smirk. A grin finally split across her face and she started to laugh.

"An affair?" she asked between giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. Harold felt his face redden. "Where did you hear that?"

"James," Harold muttered and Lucy laughed again, louder this time.

"And you believed him?" she asked.

Harold didn't reply. He stood there sullen, watching Lucy try and collect herself. Once she managed to catch her breath, no easy feat considering the corset she was wearing, Lucy looked at Harold, smirking but more serious than before.

"Harry," she said, "I love Charlie. He's done so much for me that I can't even begin to explain, but we are _not_ having an affair."

"James said you spent a lot of time together on the _Oceanic_ …" Harold said. He had spent the last few days agonizing over the idea of Charles and Lucy together, he had been so certain of it that now he had to be sure it wasn't real.

Lucy shook her head. "Innocent, all of it. We're only friends."

"I'm going to kill James," Harold growled. He turned and marched up the gangplank to the gangway door. Lucy followed after him and he could hear a few more giggles escape her lips.

Now that he knew the truth, he felt both utterly stupid and wonderfully relieved. It was just a misunderstanding. If James knew what was good for him, he would lay low for the next few hours, otherwise he was going to get an earful from Harold. He should have known that James was misinformed; the lad almost always had his head in the clouds. Hard working and well liked, but far too dreamy for Harold's taste. As for the animosity towards Charles, well, that seemed to vanish rather quickly now that he knew the truth, now there was no reason to be jealous. He felt a twinge of guilt for having treated him so poorly the other night at dinner.

They navigated the corridors to B Deck, walking towards the bow and the first stewardess's cabin there. The relief that Harold felt about Lucy and Charles was suddenly fleeting as he remembered how defensive Lucy had been at the start of their brief conversation. He glanced down at her as they walked, she smiled up at him, and he wondered what else she was hiding. She said they were only friends, but was there something else she said that was nagging at his brain. Something that kept him from fully believing what she had said.

 _We had no choice._

Harold felt his brows draw together as the words came to him. They had no choice other than to what?

They stopped at her cabin door and Lucy turned to him.

"Well, goodnight then," she said, one hand on the brass knob.

He looked at her carefully, eyes flickering over her face. Her gaze was soft, her smile easy and Harold realized that she had been lying through her teeth when they talked. She and Charles may not be having an affair, but there was something else she wasn't telling him, and she seemed perfectly at ease with the fact that she lied by omission after he asked for the truth. She had willingly deceived him and he was hurt by it.

His hands fisted at his side. He would be damned if he was going to be made a fool like this.

"Goodnight Lucy," he said, fighting to keep his voice even. He turned and walked back towards his own quarters, leaving her standing in the corridor dumbfounded at his hostile retreat. He didn't care. If she wasn't going to tell him the _whole_ truth, then he would figure it out by his own accord.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

 **April 10th 1912**

It was boarding day and I had never seen Titanic so alive, especially this early in the morning. An undercurrent of excitement buzzed through the ship as stewards hurried to put finishing touches on the cabins, the scullions battled the galley range as they prepped for lunch, and the quartermasters worked to lower the gangways. On the port, velvet ropes and signs directing passengers through customs were put into place by the dock workers. Larger luggage that had been sent to the port ahead of their passengers was being loaded onto the ship by seamen. The frenzy was contagious and I was a happy recipient of the epidemic. As I walked towards the Café Parisian on the starboard deck, I couldn't help the grin on my face. Nothing could ruin this lively morning, not even the thought of how last nights escapade with Harry turned sour in our last few moments together. Nor the fact that Cassie was walking towards me looking very tense and out of sorts. Her mousy hair was falling out of its pins and she looked like she hadn't slept at all the night before. Likely up all night worrying about boarding day.

"Good morning Cissie," I said as she approached.

"Oh, Lucy my dear!" she said, "Are you busy?"

"Er… not at the moment," I replied lamely. For a woman who spent the better half of her adult years lying, one would think I would be quicker on my toes. I had snuck out of my berth cabin before Violet woke up, intending to meet with Charles before work. He had insisted we get together to discuss what had happened between Harry and I. I wasn't sure if he wanted to reassure himself that Harry knew nothing about us, or watch me miserably relive my disappointing night. Either way, Cissie didn't need to know I was shirking my responsibilities.

"Thank goodness. Be a dear and run down to the galley and retrieve the extra bottles of carbonated water? Each stewardesses pantry needs to be stocked," she said hurriedly, "And double check that Mabel stocked the baking soda. I don't need any passengers losing their lunch over a little seasickness."

"Yes ma'am," I said and she hurried past me before I finished the last word. I watched our matron shuffle down the corridor and disappear around the corner. She was a card, that one. The first day on the berth I had been wondering what the White Star Line was thinking putting her in charge, but once I managed to see past her quirks, I resolved that I quite liked her. Cissie was unusual, but as devoted to her charges as a mother was, and I was grateful for that. She didn't mention anything to me about the slap three days ago, or rendezvousing on the port with Harry, and I honestly wasn't sure if she even knew or if she even cared.

I turned and continued down the corridor towards the café, ignoring Cissie's instruction to retrieve the bubble water. The widely accepted rumor was that bicarbonate soda water was the cure for seasickness but I thought it was rubbish. All it did was leave a terrible burn in the nose after drinking it. The real solution was ginger and peppermint tea and plenty of sleep.

And not being such a ninny over a few small waves, of course.

I turned through the double doors that lead into the Café Parisian. If I was a passenger, I would spend every waking moment here. The tall windows bathed the veranda in pink early morning light. A steward was at the tiered buffet table setting out silver coffee urns, trays of strawberries and currents, and platters stacked with pop overs, biscuits, and croissants. Lounging in the far corner was Charles. He sat back in a white wicker chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, smoking as he looked out the window at the water. He had been so distracted lately, we both had, and his face was starting to show it. The crease in his brow was deeper and the frown lines around his mouth had turned to ravines. He had always been a serious man, but nowadays he seemed even more despondent, and I hated to see him that way. Our troubles were slowly tearing us down. We could only resist for so long.

I paused behind him, not wanting to disturb his quiet contemplation since we rarely got a still moment to ourselves anymore. Despite my efforts, he looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. The cleft in his chin deepened, which made me smile. He pushed out the chair next to him for me to sit.

"What I gentleman," I commented dryly as I sat down across from him. I looked over his face. His blue eyes caught the sunlight as he shifted forward, turning them transparent and making his lashes even more blonde. He leaned over and tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette then sat back and looked at me. I could practically feel the calculation behind his steady gaze and knew that he was scrutinizing me the same way I was studying him.

I couldn't fathom how I looked this morning. I didn't have time to properly pin my hair and I had spent a majority of the night replaying Harry's words in my head. I was also acutely aware of the crease in my pinafore and with everything that had been going on in our lives, it was a wonder we could even manage smiles between us. We both looked like death was coming for us.

"We make a sorry lot, don't we?" Charles finally sighed and I gave him a tired smile.

"We always have," I replied almost numbly and he nodded as he smoked. "Can you believe Harry and James thought we were having an affair? What a dull sin that would have been with the likes of us."

Charles laughed; a genuine laugh that eased my worries and made me grin.

"When James told me what he thought was happening between us, I had to ask him to repeat himself. I was certain I misheard the first time," Charles replied between chuckles.

"Well, I blatantly laughed in Harry's face when he told me," I sighed, internally wincing at myself. No wonder he was irritated with me by the end of the night. "You were nice to him, weren't you?" I asked. "James, I mean. He may not be harmless but he always means well."

I watched Charles shrug his shoulders. He was never intentionally angry, and he didn't have a temper like Harry did, but he could be frighteningly harsh. I had only seen it a few times in our short acquaintance, but it was enough to know how much damage his words could do.

"I told him the same thing I've said since the first day I met him," Chares replied, "To keep his nose out of my business. I also threatened to show the other officers his stack of tricks cards he uses to win at poker and that shut him up fairly quickly."

I smirked. I didn't know James very well but from what Charles had told me about him, I imagine we would get along swimmingly.

"How was your night with Harry?" Charles asked through a haze of smoke as he exhaled one last time before dropping the cigarette butt into the ash tray.

I groaned and Charles chuckled.

"That bad, eh?" he asked.

"It didn't start out bad," I said. "It actually started out very…sweet. We were just walking the port and talking, but we got off the ship so the late the only thing open were the brothels. We walked through the cemetery, talked about home, and then made our way back to the ship. I asked him what he knew about us and we both laughed it off—well, I laughed. He just sulked. He walked me to my cabin, and then he just…left."

"No goodnight kiss?"

I shot Charles my best snarl. I wished people would stop romanticizing the idea of Harry and me. He was too good for me. He knew the little girl in Barmouth, but the woman I was now was a stranger to him. She had too many secrets, ruined too many lives, made too many mistakes. Harry was good and deserved better than what I had to offer; no matter how badly I wanted to be the right woman for him, I knew I wasn't.

"No," I muttered, "He seemed troubled by something but I don't know what. It was…odd. I don't think we ended the night on very good terms."

Charles watched me frown. "You shouldn't dwell on it," he said reassuringly, "Harry's in a constant state of turmoil, it seems. I'm sure whatever he was upset about was not directed at you."

My lips twisted in disbelief. I always gave people a reason to be annoyed with me. It was one of the few talents I possessed.

Charles saw my incredulity and continued with a sigh. "Harry spent a night with a lovely young woman, talking about a place I'm sure he's been secretly missing for years. All he needed was a drink in his hand and it would have been perfect. Stop fretting."

I nodded and we lapsed into silence, enjoying the early morning. The sun was just above the horizon. Dishes clanked as the steward across the room set up displays of bone china tea sets. The tang of tobacco lingered in the air. The morning held a promise of new hope and exciting possibilities. In a few hours the passengers would board, _Titanic_ would be released from the mooring lines and I would be on my way to freedom.

 _Freedom._

It was so tangible I could almost feel it. I spent four years feeling trapped in the same vicious cycle, but now the end was near, all thanks to Charles. He was the light at the end of a suffocatingly dark tunnel.

I looked at him.

"I thought I saw him," I said, "Last night, as Harry and I returned to the ship."

And there I went, ruining a perfectly good morning.

He didn't look at me. He stared out the window but I saw him carefully swallow, trying not to give away his fear. He looked down at his uniform, adjusting the gold buttons.

"Art or Frank?"

Hearing the names aloud made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It had been so long since either Charles or I had spoken about those two men, and there was good reason for it. Something made me bring them up again though, like I couldn't help but pick at a sore that just needed time to heal. I knew it was wrong, and I should probably leave it be, but some part of me wanted it to sting. I wanted to watch the blood run and so I scratched until I opened the sore again. I saw how it effected Charles too. He was suddenly stiff in his chair, every move of his suddenly looking mechanical. Who knew that two men would have such a damning effect on us. Two men, who we once considered business partners and close friends, suddenly made us weak in the stomach. In as little as four years, Charles and I had gone from fearless larcenists, to cowardly runaways.

"Both, actually," I finally replied. My hands were in my lap, but they were wringing over each other like a laundry mangle. "Two men turned down an alley ahead of us while we were walking and I swore one of them had red hair. It very nearly scared me to death." I tried to laugh it off, but it sounded forced. Frank and Arthur's faces flashed through my mind and the noise died in my throat.

Charles didn't acknowledge my attempt to lighten the mood. He frowned. "I'll be happy when this is finally over," he muttered, "Maybe then I'll be able to sleep. I spend all night wondering if I'm being a coward, thinking about everybody I've wronged and waiting for the day they come after us. It's enough to give me an early death."

I watched him tick the list off on his fingers.

"Are we cowards?" I asked. "Do you think we should have gone to the police?"

Charles finally looked at me. "I don't know. This seemed like such a fool proof idea in the beginning, but all this _waiting_ has me sick. Thank God it's sailing day."

The café had fallen suspiciously quiet. I looked over my shoulder at the steward, who had his back to us but was standing very still. I reached for Charles' arm, resting my hand on his coat sleeve, and giving him a reassuring smile.

"We're going to be okay," I said, dropping my voice to a whisper, "We've made it this far. We've got the money and we have each other. No one knows what we did."

He looked at me, giving me a close lipped smile.

"I know. You're probably right. If they haven't come for us yet, they likely never will," Charles sighed with a nod of his head. I wondered if he actually believed it, because I wasn't sure if I did. I wanted to trust that everything was okay, but it seemed I couldn't stop the anxiety building inside me. Part of me feared I would spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, but lamenting over everything that did or might happen wasn't going to solve our problems. It only made us miserable. "Besides," Charles continued, "I've got too much on my mind already."

"Like?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "Like the shuffle and the fact that I now have to answer to that oaf, Wilde. No one seems to know where the binoculars are and the junior officer's keep complaining that the captain makes them fetch tea instead of giving them real responsibility. I swear I work with a bunch of imbeciles."

I grinned, giving his arm a light squeeze before returning my hand to my lap.

"See?" I asked, "We'll be fine, Charlie."

He nodded again and sighed. We sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the last moments of peace before we would be scrambling after passengers. I closed my eyes against the sunlight, until I heard Charles shift in his chair. I watched him stand.

"I have to get to the bridge before everything falls apart in my absence. Take care of yourself Lucy," he said as he leaned over and kissed the top of my head. "I'll see you when we dock."

I watched him go, knowing he was probably right. We had spent enough time together before _Titanic_ left port, it was likely a good idea to keep our distance until we reached New York. I stood up and nodded goodbye to the steward before leaving the Café Parisian and entering beautiful chaos as White Star Line employees rushed to finish outfitting _Titanic_. As I dodged the bellhops, boys no older than sixteen, I grinned to myself. The maiden voyage. It was finally happening.

* * *

Harold was up early, as was most of _Titanic's_ crew. Everyone was on their best behavior, alert and hard at work, mostly due to the rush of sailing day, but also because Mr. Ismay was sneaking around looking for anyone idling about. Harry had already witnessed the chairman getting after a steward for polishing the silver wrong (" _Circular_ motions! Are you daft?") and he wasn't keen on spending more face time with the man than was absolutely necessary. He knew Mr. Ismay was trying. He wanted what every other White Star Line employee wanted: a successful maiden voyage, but the anticipation seemed to have gone to his head and made him even more insufferable than normal.

As Harold neared the bridge, he eyed Mr. Ismay walking his direction with Captain Smith at his side. Not in the mood to chat, or to be chastised—which was more likely—Harold ducked into the officer quarters. Henry, Charles and Will had been up remarkably early this morning but the rest of the officers had slept in. If he could call six in the morning "sleeping in." He walked down the corridor until he found himself in front of James's cabin. The sixth officer still hadn't made an appearance on the bridge yet and Harry wanted to talk to him about last night.

Harold knocked and it was a few seconds before James opened the door, adjusting his tie.

"G'morning," he said as he slipped out into the hall.

"You told me Lights and Lucy were having an affair," Harold said abruptly.

James sighed, turned around and closed the door to his cabin. "For the record," he replied, looking back at Harold and moving towards the bridge wing, "I never said the word affair. You jumped to that conclusion on your own."

"At the mercy of your insinuations," Harold replied, following James towards the aft of the deck. "You made me look like a fool!"

James paused at the rail that overlooked the lower decks. Will was on the bridge as well, talking with a quartermaster near the telegraphs. James pursed his lips, looking a little irritated, which was completely unlike the junior officer.

"Listen, Harry," he sighed, "You don't need to lecture me. Lights already chastised me for gossiping like a girl at afternoon tea. I shouldn't have said anything, I know, and I'm sorry. Can we just forget it happened?"

Harold searched his face. James was serious, and Harold could have sworn he saw a flicker of sadness cross his face. He frowned, knowing something was wrong. He had yet to have a conversation with James that didn't end in a laugh at some inappropriate joke, and yet the sixth officer looked as animated as a dying dog this morning. If Harold was a good friend, he would ask what was troubling him. But if there was one thing Harold couldn't stand, it was sentiment, so instead he gave a pathetic nod of his head.

James held Harold's gaze for a long moments before he turned and entered the wheelhouse, just as Will approached the balustrade.

"What's got him in a mood?" Harold asked, indicating to James's retreating form.

"Grieving the loss of his friend, I suspect," Will replied, "Poor bloke. Told me all about it the morning of the sea trials."

Harold felt a twist of shame in his gut that James hadn't felt comfortable enough to confid in him, then he remembered that if he was a more empathetic person, maybe James would have said something.

"I heard you and a stewardess walked the town last night," Will said, switching the topic of conversation.

"Is nothing on this ship private?" Harold asked.

Will laughed, "No," he replied, "Now, I'm not your mother—if I were I'd dig my own grave—but as your superior I have to remind you that it's not appropriate."

"You've got to be joking."

"I wish I was but I'm not. It was late, you two were unaccompanied, and she's a stewardess for Christ's sake Harry. Mingle on board all you want about work matters, spend time together when you're on leave, I don't care, but when you're in uniform you've got a reputation to uphold. If Mr. Ismay caught wind of what you were doing, he'd likely have you sacked."

"I'd like to see him try," Harold growled.

"This isn't just about you," Will scolded, "There's enough rumors floating around this ship about that girl, don't give anyone any reason to start a new one. If you want to court her then do it properly."

Harold sighed but didn't reply.

"I'm just looking out for you, mate," Will said, clapping him on the back, "I'm saying this as a friend. You're a determined worker and I hate the idea of having to train a new junior officer."

Fight flashed through Harold's body on instinct. He wanted to defend himself, tell Will off, justify his actions, anything to let the first officer know that he wasn't going to just roll over and obey orders. He thought better of it though. Will was just doing his duty as an officer. He called Harold his friend. He could think of worse ways to be reprimanded.

"Fine," he replied, "I'll be more careful."

Will nodded then grinned. "Now that we've got that out of the way, how was it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Last night! Did you show her the old monastery? Women love walking through the gardens there. Something about the flowers and history of it all…very romantic."

"We walked through a cemetery actually," Harold muttered.

Will looked at him, nodding slowly. "You certainly know how to woo a woman don't you?" he said seriously.

"Oh, bugger off," Harold said and Will laughed. "We're just friends. We spent the night walking around and talking, that's it."

"How very boring," Will teased dryly. He pulled the sleeve of his great coat up to check his watch. "Come on. Representatives from the Board of Trade will be here any minute. I'll need you and James to lower a pair of lifeboats to pass inspection."

Will lead the way towards the wheelhouse to find James, Harold lumbering after him.

* * *

When the passengers began boarding, Southampton port was bustling and noisy. On the upper decks, the roar of voices was almost as loud as _Titanic's_ whistle, but below, the steel platted walls muffled the noise to almost silence. I made my way down the corridor on B Deck, keeping as inconspicuous as possible as I neared suite B 52. The halls were crowded, and I tried to watched my toes as I walked so as not to be stepped on.

From the moment the passengers boarded, Violet and I had been on our feet running between cabins like headless chickens. Sailing day, though the most thrilling, was also the longest. Passengers always had something to demand or complain about when they first entered their cabins; the rooms were too cold, their luggage needed to be unpacked, there was not enough pillows on the bed, one of the light fixtures was out, and so on. It was still early, though the sun was surprisingly hot today and so the ship felt stifling. Sweat beaded at the back of my neck where my collar was and I took a few steadying breaths before knocking on the door to the Hockley suite.

A ladies maid answered the door and stepped aside to let me enter.

A tall, slender man stood in the center of the room. He was broad shouldered, square jawed, clean shaven and had his black hair pomade to perfection. He was a sight for sore eyes, but out of decency I didn't look at him for too long. Two women entered from the bedroom. They must have been the mother and daughter, because they both had fiery red hair and gentle brown eyes. I knew these passengers, or rather, I knew their names from the passenger list. Caldon Hockley, his fiancée Rose Dewitt Bukater, and her mother Ruth. Rose pulled her gloves off finger by finger as she looked around the room critically.

Mr. Hockley looked at me and I felt myself blush. By the heavens and the stars was he handsome.

"About time," he snapped.

"You rang?" I asked.

He indicated to the massive bouquet of flowers that was sitting on the round table in the center of the sitting room.

"We need a vase and water for these flowers," he replied.

I curtsied. "Right away, sir."

I picked up the bouquet, which was an assortment of roses and baby's breath, then turned to leave. I nearly ran into a porter wheeling in a large crate of paintings. I muttered an apology and ducked out of the room, trying to see past the garden I was carrying. The door to the cabin closed behind me and I maneuvered my way to the service pantry just down the hall.

When I opened the door, I nearly ran into Violet.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, wheeling around to look at me.

"Sorry," I apologized and squeezed into the small room, setting down the flowers.

"Those are lovely," Violet commented.

"If you think these are lovely you should see the fiancé," I said and Violet snickered. Since we really had no choice but to talk now that the passengers were boarded, Violet and I had agreed to a truce and were friends again. It felt good to have my friend back, because while I got along with the other stewardesses, we did not share the same connection Violet and I did.

I indicated to the screaming kettle on the hotplate.

"Miss Allen fancies a spot of tea in her room before we set sail," Violet explained with a roll of her eyes.

I searched through the cupboards for a vase. The pantry was stocked with basic necessities: dusting cloths, a hotplate and kettle for tea, cleaning supplies, a sink and faucet, extra blankets and whatever else we deemed necessary to keep close at hand. It was a small, plain room, with white walls and bare pipes criss crossing the ceiling. The gentlemen's lavatory was on the other side of the pantry, and I tried to ignore the way the pipes gurgled when a toilet was flushed.

" _To Cal and his fiancée. Congratulations and safe crossing. Eagerly awaiting your return. Nathan Hockley_ ," Violet read from the little note attached to the bouquet, "How thoughtful."

"Yes, yes, it's all very sweet," I said impatiently. "Do we not have any vases in here?"

"You might ask one of the stewards," Violet replied and as she pulled down a teacup and saucer from the shelf. She poured boiling water over the tea and spooned in some sugar.

I sighed irritably, leaving the flowers in the pantry and heading towards the restaurant galley. It was considerably smaller than the main galley on D Deck, but I also knew it had a large storage room full of silverware, fine china, glassware and serving dishes. I was bound to find something in there.

I entered the galley, which, like the rest of the ship, was a fever of smells, scullions, knives, voices and food. I stuck close to the far wall, avoiding chefs and kitchen help that were running back and forth between the ranges. One of the chief cooks was yelling at a restaurant waiter to hurry. I nearly yelped when a large sauté pan went up in flames. I ducked inside the storage room and was greeted with hundreds of stacks of plates, bowls, champagne glasses, and utensils. Before I could even begin to look for a vase, someone entered in after me.

"Oi, what're you doin' in 'ere?" the voice behind me said, sounding annoyed.

I turned. "Flower vase?" I asked the scullion simply.

The boy, who was about eighteen years old, gave me a caustic look and went to one of the cabinets. He opened it and withdrew a little vase carved with cherubs on it. He handed it to me then grabbed a stack of serving dishes off one of the shelves.

"Be gone, will ya? Yer in the way," he said and left.

I sighed, looking at the vase. It was far too small for the bouquet that was sitting in the service pantry. I opened the cabinet and grabbed a second one, before leaving the galley was quickly as possible so I wouldn't get in trouble again. By the time I filled the vases, arranged the flowers and hurried back to cabin B 52, I was sweating something wicked. I shifted the vases, one in each arm, before entering the suite again. I quietly set them on the round table, glancing around the room to see where I could display them. With the exception of a small clock, the fireplace mantle was bare. I decided to set the flowers there.

The porters were bringing the rest of the luggage in while Rose, Ruth and their ladies maids were unpacking their belongings. A steward was showing Mr. Hockley the private promenade deck attached to the cabin, and the valet directed a bellhop whose arms were laden with trunks.

"Is this the one?"

"No, it had a lot of faces on it…" Rose was saying as she and her maid pulled out paintings from the crate.

I adjusted the second vase and stepped back to make sure they were even on the mantle, trying not to be personally offended when Rose said the room needed more color.

"God, not those finger paintings again," Mr. Hockley said as he reentered the sitting room. "They certainly were a waste of money."

I stole a glance at him, leaning against the threshold. Most of the porters had cleared out, but the cabin still felt crowded and unorganized to me. Everyone shuffled about the room, hanging dresses in the wardrobe or shifting through paintings. I tried to stay out of the way. I turned and to my horror discovered that more flowers had appeared on the round table, likely dropped off by one of the bellhops. Tulips wrapped in brown paper, daisies and ferns held together with twine, irises and lilies in a red silk bow. I picked up another bouquet and read the note attached.

 _"My dearest Rose. Imagine my shock when I heard about your engagement from Mrs. Simmons. How could you forget to tell me? Consider these flowers my compliments for a smart match. Let's do lunch when you get back to the States? Missing you dearly. Your friend, Alice King."_

I looked around the room, spotting a side table between two wing back chairs. Some flowers would have to go there, but I would need to go more vases.

"What's the artist name?" the ladies maid asked.

"Something Picasso?" Rose replied.

I was only half listening to their conversation now, busying myself with the flowers. The door opened again and a steward with a mustache, who was as old as my father, entered.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" I hissed when he handed me another bouquet. He flashed me an apologetic smile and left with a slight bow.

There were five in total. One from Mr. Hockley's father, two from Roses American friends and two from Ruth's acquaintances, that took up the majority of table space in the room, all of them congratulating Rose and Mr. Hockley on their engagement. I had to make two more trips to the galley to retrieve enough vases. When I placed the final vase on the bedside table an hour later, all the luggage had been unpacked, toiletries had been placed in the water closet, paintings had been hung, and two bottles of champagne had been drained. I was the last of _Titanic's_ victualling crew to leave the room and I knew that the Hockley party would likely be my most demanding passengers on this voyage.

Back in the main corridor, I made a detour to cabin B 24 to show a maid how to turn on the heater in the room, then I was stopped on my way to my own berth cabin because a passenger needed help finding his room. In his defense, he was an older gentlemen who found himself on the port side rather than the starboard. I stumbled into mine and Violet's cabin almost eleven hours after my day had started, and it had not yet ended. I had missed _Titanic_ leaving port, which I knew was a grand affair if Mr. Ismay had anything to say about it. I was slightly disappointed that I wasn't on the top deck at the time, but that was one of the many consequences of being a stewardess. We missed out on the little luxuries. _Titanic_ was bound for Cherbourg and I could feel the gentle hum of the engines the ship powered toward France, the hull slicing through the water effortlessly. It would be a long night as we brought on more passengers and readied dinner.

I collapsed on my bed with a sigh. Violet was sitting on her bunk, shoes removed, massaging her stockinged feet. I was bone tired but happy because _this_ type of work, making an honest wage, felt rewarding. If I could have it my way, I would be married to Mr. Hockley rather than serving him, but catering to the needs of the passengers was not a terrible occupation. I was surrounded with beautiful gowns and polite manners and rich people willing to leave a hefty tip for good service. It was much more appealing than working the coal shoots in the boiler room, and I wasn't covered in soot by the end of the day. Being part of the victualling crew, while challenging, did not leave me in a constant state of guilt either, which had been the case for the last few years.

I wanted to rest, but there was a long list of things that needed to be done for the night. I pulled myself to my feet again, uttering another sigh. Excitement and exhaustion battled for dominance in my body, and a feeling of inexplicable relief brewed in my stomach. Despite being physically drained, I felt good, calm, something I hadn't felt in a very long time. I suddenly realized why I was feeling this way.

We were no longer stuck in port. _Titanic_ was on her way to America. Charles and I, we were going to be okay, and I could cry tears of joy because of it.

 **Authors Note**

 **If you watch this scene, there are literally 100s of flower bouquets in the room and I have no idea why. This was the best explanation I could come up with as to why Lucy was in that scene.**


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

 **April 10th 1912**

Harold had a sneaking suspicion that boarding day would become the longest day of his life.

In a few short hours, he would discover that premonition to be painfully true.

After he, James and Will finished their tasks for the Board of Trade, he reported to his watch on the bridge, taking his place by the telephones and relieving Joe. The morning passed smoothly, with the Captain remaining on deck until well into late afternoon. Harold suspected that because it was sailing day, and the maiden voyage, the Captain would be present on the bridge until dinner. He was well aware of Captain Smith's reputation; a commander of the Royal Naval Reserve, one of White Star Lines most sought after mariners, and well known for his theatrics. Harold had never sailed under him before, but he was perfectly contented to have such a well respected man as his captain.

During the morning watch, just before the mooring lines were cast, Smith had disappeared into the chartroom. Bert stepped closer to Harold when they were the only ones on the bridge, other than the quartermasters.

"D'you know he's retiring?" Bert asked, his thick mustache ruffling when he spoke.

Harold shook his head.

"This trip to New York is going to be his last."

"Why?"

Bert shrugged. "Can't say. He did just turn sixty two though, and what better way to say goodbye than on _Titanic_?"

"Suppose you're right," Harold mumbled his reply.

Their conversation was cut short when the Captain and Charles reappeared from the chartroom and the order was given to cast off. Harold looked over as Charles appeared from the chartroom with the captain. He knew that Charles would be the officer on watch—he had the six to ten shift—but Harold had a bad taste in his mouth at the thought of having to stand in close quarters with him for the next two hours. He pursed his lips at the sight of the second officer, but did nothing, because he was on the clock, and now was the time to act professionally. Instead, he stood at attention and awaited his orders.

The whistles of _Titanic_ gave a sharp blast, and the noise from the crowed on the docks grew to a dull roar. He stepped closer to the forward windows to look down at the decks. The sun shone bright off the polished wood as seamen moved mooring lines the size of tree trunks. Passengers crowded at the port rail, waving and shouting and smiling, and the spirit that overcame _Titanic_ was so infectious that no one told them to stand down. The crowd of watchers pushed close to the wharf as the first tug boats turned over their engines. The whistles sounded again, like a bellowing leviathan announcing its presence. Cheers rose again and Harold, despite everything unfurling about him the past few days, grinned deeply. He stepped back from the windows, sharing a glance with Bert.

The lines on the tugboats were released and _Titanic_ was guided south to call at Cherbourg. The bridge was quiet as usual, but an excited undertone filled the men as they carried out orders. The helmsman, the other quartermaster, both of the junior officers, Charles and the Captain all moved briskly, clipping and repeating orders across the bridge as _Titanic_ cut a path through the English Channel.

He hadn't forgotten about his annoyance with Lucy and his frustration over the past few days. There was _something_ going on but Harold couldn't piece together exactly what. Both Lucy and Charles were being carefully secretive, and the lies were driving him mad. Lucy had always been one for riddles. He used to think that she used them as a coping mechanism for her father's drinking, but now he wasn't sure. Perhaps she just liked the stories. When they were young, she'd tell him stories about knights hidden in the cliffs that would unfurl themselves from the rocks and come to her rescue whenever she was in trouble. Or about running away from home and befriending a giant polar bear that would lead her to a promised land. Or about how she had no mother but was born from the waves and was waiting for the day when the ocean beckoned her back home. That's all they ever were though; only stories. Last night she told him that she was a saltwater crocodile, and it reminded him so much of when she was a little girl and looking for someone to call a friend. Lying seemed to be second nature to Lucy, and Harold had grown accustomed to it. He expected something like this to come from her, but Charles? He had had so much respect for the man when he had first met him back in Liverpool and _Titanic_ was undergoing sea trials, but in a few short days that quiet admiration had vanished, replaced with a terrible hate.

He was so confused, upset and angry, and it made him feel like he was fourteen years old again; exhausted with adults telling him what to do and torn between following his family name or following his heart. Only now, he struggled with the joy of reuniting with a lost friend, and the hurt he felt that she and his colleague were keeping something from him. He wanted an explanation. He wanted understanding. He wanted the _truth_.

His thoughts were interrupted when Will appeared on the bridge to relieve Charles. He asked Harold for the speed before retiring.

"Eighteen knots, Mr. Lightoller," Harold replied, unsure if he was imagining the irritable connotation of Charles voice, or if it was really directed at him. Will and Charles chatted for a few minutes before the second officer left for his rounds. A bit of tension eased itself from Harold's neck once Charles left.

He swallowed hard. He was so _sick_ of being an outcast on this ship and with Lucy onboard, it only made things worse. For a few hopeful hours, Harold had thought that her being on _Titanic_ meant that he would have a comrade among the strangers he worked with, but now she was shutting him out of her life and it tortured Harold on the inside. He wanted to fill the gaps in their history, but for some reason or another, Lucy wouldn't open up to him. It was an ironic turn of events. Usually it was Harold that was tight lipped while others tried to pry conversation from him. Now that he knew what it felt like to be on the outside, he decided that he quiet detested the feeling.

Lucy didn't keep secrets from Charles, as far as Harold could tell they shared practically everything. It irked him that Charles was slowly prying his best friend from him and Harold had done nothing the last few days but watch it unfold. He could no longer sit back while Lucy and Charles distanced themselves away from everyone else.

James took over the watch at noon, giving Harold a chance to eat before he reported for the second dog watch. He found Jack, the wireless operator, in the mess hall and joined him for a smoke. A steward brought by a plate of truffle and herring for them, which Harold picked at, feeling guilty that he was only half listening to what Jack had to say. Something about the Marconi operator's birthday... He was too distracted with trying to figure out some way to get Lucy and Charles to come clean. He was tired of this game they were playing; dancing around each other's emotions, trying to pick up the scattered pieces of their lives. He wasn't sure how he was going to do it, but one way or another he needed an explanation.

Harold decided he would have to talk to James. Only someone as devious and obnoxious as him would know what to do.

* * *

It seemed I had barely landed on my bed before there was a knock at our door and Cissie entered. Violet and I quickly rose to our feet as the matron entered.

"Ladies," she greeted, "One of the passengers has requested a stewardess present in her cabin when she boards."

Violet and I exchanged exasperated looks. If a passenger requested a stewardess at boarding that usually meant that they were not accompanied with a party, valet, or ladies maid, and would require more attention than usual. One of us would have to be there to unpack and repack luggage, press gloves, string corset laces for breakfast, afternoon tea and both before and after dinner, hair dress (which I was terrible at), draw a bath should the need arise, and shine boots on top of the typical errands we did like cleaning, fetching tea and relaying messages to the mailroom. Merely thinking about the extra tasks made me tired. The tips from the passengers that required more personal attention tended to be more generous, though not always worth it.

Violet looked at Cissie.

"Who's the passenger?" she asked like the smart girl she was. We would be much more willing serve a theater actress than a retired duchess. One would be lively and entertaining, the other spoiled and ugly as sin most likely.

"Molly Brown, she's in room B4. An American."

Violet and I groaned. American's were the worst passengers. They had terrible manners and they almost always skimped on their tips. They were demanding too, and their accents grated on the ears. They were as bad as the French.

"You can decide amongst yourselves who'll take the passenger, but I expect one of you in the cabin before we reach Cherbourg. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Violet and I replied in unison. Cissie left, closing the door behind her. As soon as the doorknob clicked in the keyhole, Violet and I pointed at each other, glaring.

"You'll be the one to take the passenger, I suspect," I said.

Violet barked out a bitter laugh. "The last passenger I took was a crotchety old woman who made me blow on her tea before serving it," she said, "You couldn't possibly make me take the American."

I shook my head, refusing to yield. "Don't you remember that passenger on the _Oceanic_? The woman who was crossing to Liverpool to attend her grandmother's funeral? She cried the whole voyage and made me sit with her almost every night while she mourned! I'm not doing it."

"Neither shall I," Violet answered, crossing her arms.

I sighed, glancing around the room. Both of us were too hard headed, and had had too many unpleasant memories of passengers, to relent. We would need another way to settle this. Feeling inspired, I went to the wardrobe and pulled open the mahogany doors.

"Alright," I said and shifted through my dresses until a found a copper coin. "We'll flip for it, yeah?" I asked as I took my place across from Violet again. She nodded with agreement and I placed the coin on my thumb. Violet called heads, I flipped the coin, and the both of us watched as the copper spun through the air, clattered to the wood floor and rolled under my bed.

"Damn," I muttered and Violet and I sunk to our knees, searching for who had been victorious. Violet shimmied further under the bed to reach my trunk and my heart fluttered in my chest as she grasped the leather handle. "Don't!" I snapped, but she only pulled my truck aside to grab the copper. She gave me an odd look as she showed me the coin, which was flaunting George V's profile. I scowled and Violet beamed at me.

"Enjoy the extra tips," she said as we both hauled ourselves to our feet. I brushed my hands over the knees of my uniform. She handed my coin back, and I pocketed it, exiting the cabin before Violet had a real chance to gloat. Not that she actually would, being the good Christian girl she was. Even so, I was irritated that I lost the coin toss.

I started walking down the corridor towards Mrs. Brown's suite. Using the master key, I unlocked the cabin and entered. The victualing had been issued the keys on recruitment day and Violet and I both had a key that unlocked all the forward cabins we oversaw on B Deck.

The suite was a smaller, one passenger room, but no less exquisite than the rest. I went to the window that overlooked the forecastle deck. It was late, and in the distance I could see the lights of the French shore like little candle flames on the water. The ferry boat was docked next to Titanic and more passengers were boarding, just moments before the first class dinner would be served on the deck above. Longing twisted in my stomach as I ached to join them. I wanted to be one of the socialites; dining among the rich and popular, carefree as I indulged in silly luxuries like feather pillows and lawn croquet. I closed my eyes and thought of America. It was far too late for New York to be my second chance, I had had too many second chances in my life and I had messed up each and every one of them, but it _was_ a chance for new beginnings. I could reinvent myself completely. No one would have to know about my piss poor excuse for a father or that the money in the bottom of my trunk was stolen from a man I used to be a little in love with. I could be a good, confident person in America. I would read books and offer shillings to shoeless street kids. Maybe I would attend church where I could meet a nice man. I was older, but not yet ruined for marriage. I could get a job and pay rent in those new tenement houses that were all over Manhattan. Or perhaps I would move north to Main. I could sit in a harbor side café sipping coffee and the only thing bothering me would be which Rembrandt painting I should buy at the gallery. I may even learn to tolerate the terrible accents.

The door to the room burst open and I jumped, opening my eyes and whirling around. My dream for America was quickly pushed aside as a woman dressed in a fur wrap and feathered hat entered. She looked around the room, grinning like a child who had just discovered what toffee tastes like.

"My, what a lovely a room," she said. Her voice was strong and loud, much like the rest of her persona. She indicated to the porter who came in after her, large trunks tucked under each of his arms. I had met him once before…Cedric something. "You can just put 'em there sonny," she said, waving a hand in the direction of the bed, near where I was standing. She went to inspect the vanity table, pulling off her hat and gloves as she did so.

The porter dropped his load onto the floor at the foot of the bed. He leaned close to me.

"Careful with this one," he said, and for a moment I stupidly thought he was referring to the small valise he placed at my feet. It was only after he indicated to Mrs. Brown that I realized he was talking about her. "She's a handful if I've ever met one."

I inwardly groaned and the young porter grinned at me. He dipped his head and moved towards Mrs. Brown.

"Anything else, ma'am?" he asked.

She dismissed him with a tip and Cedric Something left, but not before flashing me an apologetic smirk.

I turned to the woman and curtsied. "Would you like me to unpack your things Mrs. Brown?"

"Yes, thank you, darlin'," she said and I began opening the luggage and pulling out dresses and hats, placing them in the wardrobe.

"My daughter was supposed to come with me but at the last minute decided to stay in Paris," Mrs. Brown said. "Silly girl. I'm very proud of her, of course, but I'll sure miss her on this crossin'. She's a good girl, nice company to be around. You probably would've liked her. Almost everyone that meets Helen likes her. She's got a personality like that—people just gravitate to her."

I nodded politely as I unpacked shifts and gloves. Passengers were strange and the longer I worked as a stewardess, the easier it became to differentiate them into two categories. The first was Mr. Hockley and his party, passengers who only spoke to me when they had to. They barked orders and expected prompt, unobtrusive service. The other was Mrs. Brown, who talked to me like we were old friends chatting over a cup of tea. They asked for input on which necklaces went best with their evening gowns, or shared a bit of gossip they heard while playing Bridge in the library. Of course it was always one sided. These passengers never cared to hear about my stories the way real friends would. They could care less that my favorite thing to eat was raspberries. They simply wanted to talk to hear their own voices and grace me with their extensive knowledge of so—and—so's affair with the kitchen maid. I quickly learned to tune out voices so I could concentrate on my work, keeping my answers simple so the passengers could talk till their voices went raw.

I wasn't sure what unnerved me more, being treated like a dog or a therapist. Mrs. Brown seemed to fall in the latter category, talking just for the sake of it.

"Is there anything else Mrs. Brown?" I asked when I finished unpacking, hoping that she would relieve me for the evening.

Mrs. Brown took a seat at the vanity and began pulling pins out of her hair, watching herself in the mirror. "As luck would have it, I could have you help me undress."

"You don't want to attend dinner?"

"Darlin' it's been a long day of travel. I'd like to go the bed more than anythin'." Mrs. Brown said seriously, giving me a stern look through the refection in the mirror.

I stepped closer to her and undid the clasp on her necklace.

"What's your name?"

A few seconds of silence ticked between us before I realized she was talking to me.

"My name?" I repeated.

Mrs. Brown laughed. "You do have one, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied. Passengers often didn't care to learn my name and her casual disposition caught me off guard. "Lucy Fairchild."

"We'll it's a pleasure to meet you Miss Fairchild," she replied, "You can call me Molly if you like."

"Yes…Molly," I said, her name sounding foreign on my tongue. If Cissie or Mr. Ismay heard me referring to Mrs. Brown by her first name, they would have a field day. I wasn't sure if I could bring myself to do it regularly. It was uncomfortable. Perhaps for tonight I would call her Molly, and in the morning she would forget the request and I could go back to using Mrs. Brown.

"Where're you from Miss Fairchild?" Mrs. Brown asked.

"Wales," I replied.

"I've never been to Wales," she replied as she finished and shook out her brown locks that were kinked and tangled from the pins. "But I might visit one day."

She stood up and I began working the tiny buttons down the back of her maroon dress. Once I had the buttons undone and the corset laces loosened, she stepped behind the changing screen to finish. She spoke the whole time; chatting about her husband and the home she owned in a place called Denver. She talked about the Astor's and a _boulangerie_ she discovered along the Seine. When she reappeared, dressed in a long robe with a silk bow at the neck, she took a seat at the vanity so I could do her hair. She asked me questions too, wanting to know about my life before _Titanic_ , my family, my work as a stewardesses. I told her that I grew up in a family of six, my father was a minister, and we had a blind dog we called Moses. It wasn't true, of course, but it made for a good story and Mrs. Brown seemed to like it. I suppose I didn't really need to fabricate a lie for her, but old habits die hard.

I finished braiding her hair, tying the end with bow.

"Shall I turn down the bed for you?" I asked.

"That won't be necessary. I may need help but I'm not an invalid," she replied and I smiled. "You can go."

I nodded and dipped into a curtsy. "Goodnight then, Molly," I said.

I left Mrs. Brown's cabin feeling odd. Never before had a passenger taken interest in me like she had. I had plenty of people who were nice, and would ask me questions, but never to the degree that Mrs. Brown did. I wasn't here to be her friend, I was here to do my job, but Mrs. Brown seemed oblivious of that. She was straightforward, which I liked, but unusual and a bit tacky, which I struggled to understand. The longer I mulled over our first meeting, the more I decided that she didn't fit into either category of the passengers. She was another category all together; vibrant and harsh and witty all wrapped up in a rather flamboyant package. I wasn't sure what to think of her, but I was certain of one thing. She treated me more like an equal than anyone else ever had and I appreciated it. Perhaps, she wouldn't be such a difficult passenger to wait on after all.

The corridors were mostly deserted, a stark contrast to the bustling halls they had been hours before. There was evidence in the silence that boarding day was winding down to an end. I walked through the first class entrance past a group of men, dressed in their finest, stumbling back to their cabins after one to many brandies. I bypassed mine and Violet's berth cabin and went straight for the crew passage. I had missed lunch and dinner and I was seconds away from eating the carpet in order to survive. With any luck, John would be in the galley with a bowl of beef bouillon and a side of hot bread for me.

I made it to C Deck, the long halls echoing eerily in the silence. If it wasn't for the brilliant lights overhead, a shiver would have run down my spine. There was something very ominous about the grandeur of _Titanic_ ; that something so massive and heavy could float. As I made my way quietly towards the main galley, I couldn't help but think that with over two thousand people on board, I still felt utterly alone in the labyrinth corridors. Harry's face instantly came to mind. I wished he was walking next to me. I wished we were back home, walking over the rocky shores of the bay and watching the fishing boats, or under the salt soaked timbers of the bridge. I loved Barmouth, it all but tore me apart to say goodbye, and I missed roaming the hills of rye grass. _Titanic_ , majestic as it was, was foreign and strange to my senses. No wonder I felt out of place.

I didn't have long to wallow, because as I turned a corner to head towards the deck stairs, I nearly ran into a man's waistcoated chest.

"Pardon me, sir," I said hastily to him and his companion, curtsying quickly. When I looked up to see whether he was angry or indifferent, I felt my blood run cold and my limbs tense in alarm. I slowly rose to my full height, my gazed flickering between the two passengers before me. The very men I had hoped to never see again, the very men who had been the cause of mine and Charles' misery, were standing right before me and the fear that struck through my body was violent and paralyzing.

The shock on Arthur's face told me he was just as surprised by my appearance as I was of his. He quickly recovered though, his lips splitting into a wide grin that made my spine stiffen instinctively. His hair was longer than I remembered and his eyes were glazed from the red wine served at dinner.

"Hello sweetheart," he said slowly, his voice quiet and muffled. I tried to step back, every fiber of my being screaming at me to turn and run, but I couldn't will my legs to move. I was rooted in the spot like a piece of _Titanic's_ décor.

Behind him, Frank looked at me with a sharp, penetrating gaze. Beneath his salt and pepper goatee, his lips were pressed to a fine line, the corners of his mouth white from the pressure. The lines in his face seemed deeper and in the harsh light his skin looked waxy, making him appear older than a man in his mid fifties. Much like Charles, his face remained passive in my presence, but I knew under that cool exterior the gears in that brilliant mind of his were turning. He pushed back his coattails and placed his hands in his pockets, regarding me carefully.

"You've got something of ours."

Arthur's voice drew my attention back to him. His handsome face was twisted in a sneer. A sick feeling started in my stomach and rose to my chest, constricting my rib cage and making it difficult to breath. Despite the fear that made my mind go blank and my hands shake at my side, I managed to squeak out a pitiful reply.

"I don't—"

I barely managed two words out before Arthur drew his fist back and let it fly straight at my jaw. His knuckles connected with my mouth and sent my head snapping back, the sudden force nearly throwing me off balance. My teeth cut through my lip and blood gushed into my mouth. I folded forward over my knees, clasping both hands over my mouth to keep the blood from dripping onto the floor. I let out a muffled cry in pain.

Above me, Arthur shook out his knuckles, hissing. Frank put a strong hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard in warning.

"Now you've done it," Frank muttered, eyes on me.

I could barely focus on what they were saying. The sharp pain in my lip throbbed, and the sheer _force_ behind his fist had me shaking anew. I had never been hit before, and certainly not in a malicious way, but I saw the way Arthur's face contorted and the temper behind his eyes flare and I knew he had _wanted_ to hurt me. I dropped forward onto my knees, one hand outstretched to catch myself before all of me ended on the floor. Tears sprung to my eyes but I fought them back. I would not let Frank see my weakness.

I blinked hard, looking up at the two men. One hand still covered my mouth, which was filling with blood and saliva.

"Art, let's go," Frank said firmly.

"No," Arthur replied, looking down at me. "I've got questions for her."

Frank still hadn't removed his hand from Arthur's shoulder, and I was grateful because Frank's authority was the only thing keeping Arthur's fists tethered to his side. He leaned closer to Arthur. "Later. When you're not drunk and we're not in the middle of the corridor," Frank said. He glanced at me with a look as cold and unflinching as a snakes, one that told me this wouldn't be the last time we encountered each other and the thought made me sick. This was only the beginning. Frank continued, "Come on, before someone sees us."

I dropped my head and through a haze of tears I saw their shined shoes retreat down the hall, turning a corner and disappearing. As soon as they were gone, I choked out a silent sob, trying to draw a breath past the shaking hand that was covering my mouth. I slowly rose to my feet and turned back the way I had come. I had to find Charles and warm him.

I clumsily climbed the stairs to the next deck, one hand in front of me to keep from stumbling into the wall. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if Frank or Arthur or anyone else was following me, but I was alone. I forced myself to keep moving forward, trying to think of anything but the pain in my jaw, and certainly trying to keep my thoughts away from Frank and Arthur and what had brought them to _Titanic_. I kept telling myself that Charles would know what to do. He always knew the answer. I just had to get to him before I left a trail of blood and spit along the hallway.

I made it to the top deck through the first class entrance. I pushed my way through the foyer door and threw myself against the rail, finally dropping my hand and coughing out the contents of my mouth. I drew a deep breath and gagged over the rail again, trying to spit the coppery taste out of my mouth. A line of saliva and blood fell from my lips towards the black water. I wiped the spit from my chin tenderly before placing my hand over my mouth again and turning towards the officer quarters. My stomach felt queasy, either from the shock of seeing my old business partners or because the amount of blood I was swallowing was enough to drown a person from the inside out.

I leaned through the divider between the first class promenade and the officers promenade, which was little more than a white gate and a sign that designated the area for White Star Line crew only. I opened the door to the officer quarters, and started down the corridor as quietly as I could manage. If someone other than Charles found me, there would be a frenzy of questions, none of which I would begin to know how to answer. I knocked on the door to the second officers' quarters. When Charles didn't immediately answer, I knocked again, only harder. I felt tears of fear and frustration burn at the corners of my eyes when I was greeted with silence. I tried the door knob, but his cabin was locked.

Trying to keep my wits about me, I started back down the hall. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I could no longer risk standing out in the open with the state I was in. Perhaps Violet or Cissie would know what to do. I tried to grab the handle of the door to the promenade deck, but my vision blurred and my fingers slipped from the brass knob. I tried a second time, and that's when I saw a sliver of warm light beneath the door to the fifth officers cabin. A shadow crossed its path.

 _Harry._

Desperate for help, and not bothering to knock beforehand, I pushed open the door to his room and stumbled inside.

"Christ almighty!"

I barely registered the fact that Harry was standing in only his trousers and a union suit, the white sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had his officers jacket clenched in one hand, which he subtlety raised to his chest to try and hide the fact that he was dressed in little more than his undergarments. I blinked slowly, trying to focus my attention. When I saw the flush in his cheeks and his attempt at maintaining some modesty, I couldn't help but drop my hand from my mouth and grin.

"Honestly Harry, it's only me," I said cheekily.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

 **April 10th 1912**

Even though she looked like she was about to faint, Lucy still had the audacity to give him lip. He shouldn't have been surprised. In fact, he would have been disappointed by anything but.

Harold's face flushed with embarrassment and he quickly dropped his uniform jacket onto his desk chair. He had always imagined that when a woman saw him in an undershirt, it was because it was their wedding night, not because she had burst into his room while he was changing looking like a wild cannibal that had just finished off a meal. He was acutely aware of the thin cotton material of his shirt, which made him feel more exposed than what was comfortable. His lip curled in a snarl because _damn_ Lucy and her impertinence. The irritation coursing through him almost outweighed the alarm at the sight of Lucy's appearance.

Almost.

Her mouth and chin was smeared with pink and she had a few tiny droplets of blood on her pinafore. She looked pale, and Harold wasn't sure if it was from blood loss or fright. Likely the latter, since the corners of her mouth were oozing blood but it didn't look serious enough to do major damage. Her eyes were wide and glazed with tears and she swayed unsteadily on her feet. He had never seen her so panicked before.

"What the _hell_ have you done?" Harold growled and reached towards her, taking her by the arm and guiding her down into the velvet chair. She sunk into the cushion, drawing a deep shaking breath.

"Last I—" she tried, choked on her saliva, then tried again, "Last I heard it wasn't polite to swear in front of a lady."

"Last I heard you weren't a lady," he replied sharply. She was buying herself time by not answering his question. Typical of Lucy, but the alarm in her eyes told him that whatever happened was serious. He had an inkling that it must have been tied to the secrets her and Charles were keeping. He took a seat on his mattress and swung the chair his direction to get a better look. He reached up and tenderly took her jaw in his hand and she stiffened with anticipation at his touch. With his thumb, he pulled her bottom lip down to look and she winced.

Her mouth was full of blood and it looked like her teeth had sliced right into her bottom lip, but thankfully her tongue was untouched. Blood coated her teeth, which looked like they were still miraculously attached. She was hit in the mouth and Harold hoped that it was by something rather than someone. He wasn't sure he ever knew a person with enough malice to hit a woman, but he also knew it wasn't an unlikely scenario.

Harold dropped his hand and sat back with a sigh. Thankfully, it looked worse than it was. He gave Lucy a long, even stare. She looked back at him, breathing heavily, and occasionally wiping her mouth with care.

He sat up again.

"I'm going to get you something so you can clean yourself up, we're going to stop the bleeding, then you're going to tell me _exactly_ what happened. Understand?"

Her brows furrowed and she frowned at him, her gaze turning hard. She was too exhausted to put up a real front, so she sunk back in the chair and turned to glower out the porthole window, ignoring his request for an answer.

Harold stood up and left the cabin, crossing the hallway to the officer's lavatory. He ran a sink full of cold water and waited. Now that he was away from the disarray that seemed to engulf Lucy wherever she went, he was able to think clearly.

She took a blow to the mouth—that much was obvious. He wondered if it was connected to whatever she and Charles were doing behind everyone's back. It seemed to be the only logical reason as to why she came bleeding and stumbling into his room at midnight. Harold didn't have a chance to speak with James about unmasking their odd behavior, so he was still at a loss over what was transpiring between the two. Was it so dangerous that is resulted in Lucy sustaining an injury over it? Was Charles bleeding out somewhere in the bowels of _Titanic_? He had been gone a long time on his rounds. Then a thought came to Harold. Did Lucy come to him because she couldn't find Charles or because she was trying to get away from him? Could he have done this to her?

Harold quickly shook his head, trying to shake the thought away before it embedded itself into his subconscious. Charles wasn't the type of man that would hit a woman.

Then again, his superior officer had been keeping things at a distance as of late. He wondered how much he _really_ knew about Charles.

Harold pursed his lips as he shut off the water and wrung out a cloth. He caught his reflection in the mirror and sighed. He had been awake since six this morning. He was about to go to bed when Lucy entered. In a few hours he would start another watch and he knew that he wouldn't get any sleep between now and then. He shook his head, exhausted, irritable, and ready to hear some answers.

He opened the door to the lavatory just as an officer's uniform passed.

"Oi!" Harold said and reached for James's shoulder, spinning the junior officer around to face him.

The tea in James's hand sloshed over the side of the cup and onto the floor from the force of Harold's hand. James looked at it miserably, eyes shifting between the half empty cup and his tea soaked shoes. He looked at Harold.

"What did you do that for?" he asked, pouting like a child. He then noticed that Harold was in his union suit, trousers and stocking feed and grinned wickedly. "Hello handsome," he teased.

"Shut up," Harold snapped. "If you see Lights, send him to my room, will you?"

"You two fancy a night together?"

"Bugger off James, I'm not in the mood," Harold said, frowning. He stocked off back to his quarters, wet rag in hand, leaving James grumbling about something that was too inaudible to catch.

James looked down at the tea again, sighing. A perfectly good cup, wasted. He started back towards the steward pantry to fetch another spot for the captain.

Harold reentered his cabin to find Lucy slumped in the chair, her head in her hands. When the door opened, she looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot, she had been crying while he was gone. The realization made something in Harold go soft, and he felt an ache in his chest for her and how he had treated her. He sighed as he took a seat on his bed again. Whatever had happened to Lucy wasn't her fault. She was frightened and injured. She came to him looking for help and he had been short tempered with her; just like the typical ass he had grown up to be. Shame flickered through him. His mother had raised him to be a better man than that.

"Here," he said gently, handing over the cold washcloth. Her hands trembled slightly as she took it.

"Thank you," Lucy muttered and used it to wipe the blood off her chin and around her mouth. She dabbed carefully, and Harold suspected that it would take a few days before the bruising subsided completely.

"I need to speak to Charlie," she said around the cloth.

"I know," he replied evenly and she looked at him. He crossed his arms. "He's on his rounds. He should be back any moment. You two have a lot of explaining to do."

"Oh?"

"I know you two have been keeping something from me. I know whatever happened to your face involves him."

She rolled her eyes. "Harry, please, I already told you it was nothing."

"You're lying. _Again_ ," Harold said firmly. "And you're a terrible liar."

"I'm actually quite good at lying," Lucy said, dropping the washcloth and glancing down at her hands. The wet fabric was blotchy with blood but her mouth already looked much improved now that there was no longer red between the creases of her lips. She looked back up at him again with a small smile. "You just know me too well."

She was being sentimental again and she knew how that made him feel. Harold shifted on his bed, glancing at the door. He rubbed his tired eyes. It had been such a long day for him, probably for both of them. They sat in silence while Lucy cleaned herself up.

There was a knock at the door before it opened and Charles came in. Harold took one look at him and the anger from before flared itself to life in his chest. He looked calm and sure of himself; the same way he looked all the time. He glanced at Harold then a Lucy. His lips pressed to a line, but other than the hardness in his eyes, he gave no indication of surprise. His lack of response furied Harold, who couldn't decide on a reason for his passiveness: either Charles knew what he was walking into when he came to Harold's room, or his well practiced facade hid the shock. Both made Harold jump off his bed.

He wanted to hit something. Or rather, someone.

Lucy sprung to her feet as Harold advanced on Charles, grabbing him by the lapels of his coat and shoving him against the door.

"Harry!" Lucy barked at him but he ignored her.

Charles' head cracked against the wood door and he winced but made no attempt to throw Harold off. He was a few inches taller and broader than Harold, and it wouldn't take much for him to be able to hold his own, but he only glared at the fifth officer.

"What's this about?" Charles snapped.

Harold's fingers curled to fists around his wool coat. His brain scrambled for a reply as he realized he had no real reason to hit Charles, other than the fact that he was a man who was hurt and wanted someone else to feel his pain too. He shoved Charles again.

"Harry," Lucy's voice was softer this time but still firm. She reached up and grabbed his arm, pulling him off Charles. He let her, backing away from his superior. His breath came fast, riled up from the chaos of the night. He turned back to his bed, fingers raking through his hair aggressively.

Charles paused by the door a moment, straightening his jacket, then went to Lucy. He tilted her face up towards him and frowned as he looked over her. She gave him a meaningful look.

"What happened?" he asked.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Art happened," she replied and her voice cracked at the end. "He's on the ship, Charlie. Him and Frank."

Harold watched the two pass looks, a whole conversation exchanged between a raised eyebrow and the twitch of the lips. He waited, noticing the way the color flushed from Charles' face. The senior officer slowly lowered himself onto Harold's bed, looking like _he_ had been the one to take a fist to the mouth. He blinked slowly, bewilderment uncharacteristically written in plain across his face. He looked undone, and it made Harold unnerved. He had known Charles a short time, but long enough to know that he rarely let people know what he was thinking. Sitting on his mattress, visibly reeling from the news, made Harold think that whatever was going on was no child's game.

Whoever these men were that Lucy was talking about, they were a cause for alarm, and Harold's previous speculations about Charles had been wrong. His senses were suddenly alert at the sign of trouble.

"I don't like being played a fool," Harold said after a few minutes of silence.

"No one thinks you are, Harry," Lucy said. She sunk back down in her chair with an exhausted sigh.

"Then stop treating me like one!"

Lucy sighed, dropping the damp cloth onto Harold's desk. Her mouth had stopped bleeding. Her cheeks were pale and her lips were cracked from all the rubbing. She glanced at Charles.

He had hunched over and dropped his forehead into his hands. He looked up at her and gave a firm, "No."

"Charlie…" she pressed gently.

"No," he said again, "We swore we wouldn't say anything."

Lucy looked at Harold.

"I won't tell a soul," he said, a little too quickly. He had been waiting days to find out what Charles and Lucy were hiding and now he was so close to the truth. Lucy glanced at Charles then down at her hands, which were picking at the blood spots on her pinafore. Charles made no effort to enlighten Harold, only waited for Lucy to begin, who seemed unwilling to start. " _Well?_ " Harold snapped.

Lucy winced. "Christ Harry! This isn't easy!" she said and twisted her hands into the fabric of her uniform. She sighed again. "Arthur and Frank were old…colleagues of ours," she started and Charles gave a disbelieving snort. She glared at him. "Do you want to tell it then?" she snapped. Charles looked at her evenly then stood up. She sat back on the chair, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.

"Well since we're on the fast track to hell anyways," Charles said passively, looking at Harold. "How much do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Charles shrugged then began. "After Sylvia and I married we had some…monetary issues. Nothing too serious, but her leg was beginning to hurt again and the doctors' bills were adding up, you see. I met Frank short after I realized my salary as an officer wasn't going to cut it. We talked over a few drinks, he introduced me to Art—er, Arthur—and the three of us devised a plan to earn some extra income. A few years of that and the bills were paid well enough."

"Extra income?" Harold questioned and Charles held up his hand to quiet him. Harold frowned and he continued.

"About four years ago I was in Liverpool and met Lucy under similar circumstances."

Harold glanced at her but she refused to meet his gaze as she spoke.

"You know my father," she said, "Loved his laudanum more than his daughter," she gave a strangled laugh. "When the government started regulating it he had to keep borrowing money he couldn't pay back in order to feed the addiction. We needed money. I tried a few shops around Barmouth but no one seemed keen on hiring a loud mouth young woman with a strong opinion. I tried some postings for a secretary or a governess but with no luck. I was getting desperate and my father was putting himself in danger. I met Charles in Liverpool who offered to put in a good word for me with the White Star Line offices if I would help him, Art and Frank."

"How do you mean?" Harold asked.

Charles and Lucy exchanged glances again before she finally looked at Harold.

"I suppose we could be considered actors on a stage," she said slowly, "We each had our own roles. Frank usually orchestrated the whole thing, Arthur played the role of seducer and he played it well," her tone went hard and there was a look of hurt on her face. Harold glanced at Charles. He watched Lucy, looking solemn. "There was usually some naïve and desperate heiress on board to con. They fell hard and fast," she paused, a dark smirk flickering across her face. "Of course his talents weren't needed every time. Especially because he developed a bit of a reputation among the socialites so people started getting wary. In that case, I took center stage and usually scouted my assigned cabins for anything valuable. I never took anything mind you, the passengers were always quick to blame the stewardesses, but I usually created a set up for Art and Frank; leaving the door unlocked, that sort of thing. Items in the cargo hold were Charles' jurisdiction," she finished, waving a hand in his direction.

Harold looked at him curiously.

"I changed the manifests," he explained. "Call me the prop master, if you must."

Harold's gaze flickered between Lucy and Charles, his brow bent in concentration and his lips pressed in confusion. Realization dawned on him and with it, a feeling of disgust.

"You're crooks?" he said almost breathlessly.

"I prefer the word larcenists," Charles replied.

"Swindler," Lucy offered.

"Opportunist?"

"Oh, good one," Lucy hummed.

"It doesn't matter how you spin it! You're criminals either way!" Harold yelled. He turned and paced the length of the small room.

"You make it sound so tactless," Lucy answered. She seemed different. Matter of fact compared to the frightened bird she was minutes ago. "It was an art form really. We were all talented in our own ways and by the time anyone grew suspicious we were on the next ship. I paid off my father's debts and secured enough money for him to live comfortably enough in Barmouth. The next few years we continued doing it out of habit. It seemed to come naturally to us." She shrugged, glanced at Harold and scoffed. "Don't look at me like that Harry," she snapped, "We can't all be like you with your nose to the grindstone. We did what we had to."

"You _stole_ money from other people!"

"We _conned_ money from other people," Charles clarified and Harold shot him a look so vicious that he turned away.

"We made a _living_ ," Lucy said slowly, and then her voice turned softer, "And we realized our mistake, Harry," she looked up at him, silently begging him to understand, "We knew what we were doing was wrong and we felt the repercussions. The money started running dry. The more we made, the more went into setting up the next fraud and our shares became less and less. We chose our martyrs less carefully and instead of rich first class looking for hefty insure claims, they were going destitute. It spiraled out of control."

She swallowed hard.

"Feeling guilty doesn't make what you did any less terrible," Harold reprimanded.

"You don't think we know that?" Charles replied harshly. "By the time we realized it, we were in too deep. Even if we managed to find a way out, Art and Frank wouldn't take kindly to us leaving. We made a seamless team that Frank spent years creating."

"Our last ship we decided enough was enough. We took the money—our half as well as Frank and Art's—and ran," Lucy said, "Charles secured me a place on _Titanic_ after he was summoned as an officer. _That's_ why we've been acting so strange! We never meant to hurt you and we certainly never meant for you to find out."

She stood up and went to Harold, who had stopped pacing in the far corner of his quarters. He glared down at the corner of his wardrobe, boring holes into a crack in the wood. He couldn't stand to look at Charles and Lucy. They spoke so plainly and defensively. This _job,_ as they called it, was exactly that to them; a way of life. A form of talent. A means by which they survived. They felt guilty, they said so over and over again, but it was still ingrained in their lives the way a scar forms on the skin after a nasty gash and Harold felt disgusted with them. He remembered a comment that James made about Lucy and Charles on the _Oceanic_ and how they were always together talking in hushed tones. Who were they cheating then?

Lucy brought her hands up, cupping his face and turning him to face her.

"Please Harry," she said quietly, "Please understand. We've made a terrible mistake, but it's behind us. Those people who tricked the rich out of their money, who stole and resold family heirlooms for profit, they're gone. It's just me and Charlie left…your friends."

Harold reached up and yanked her hands away from his face. He didn't want to hear it. Lies, lies, lies. That's all they ever were. He moved away from her.

"A crocodile," he said slowly.

"What?" Charles asked but Harold ignored him. He looked at Lucy, whose face was pinched with hurt.

"A saltwater crocodile with big teeth and ugly skin. That's what you really are," Harold said. That night they walked around Southampton she tried to tell him the truth. That she was no longer the innocent child she used to be. Her deception and treachery had made her an ugly person. She was a beast guised as a woman.

"Harry, please," Lucy said, her voice barley louder than a whisper. She looked like she could cry, but she didn't.

"How much?" Harold asked Charles before he let himself say something he would regret.

"How much what?" Charles asked.

"How much money did you take when you ran?" Harold clarified.

Lucy remained in the corner where he had left her. She looked defeated, but she quickly drew a breath and squared her shoulders, going to stand next to Charles. She looked at him and he looked down at her.

"A little over one thousand pounds. About six hundred for each of us," Lucy said. "Enough money to make us disappear."

"So now what?" he continued, "Now these…these two men are on board?"

"There was always a chance they'd find us when they realized the money was gone," Charles said carefully. "It's just our luck that they would show up on _Titanic_." He gave an unconvincing smile then turned to Lucy. "What exactly happened?"

"I was finishing up with a passenger and I missed dinner. I was on my way to the main galley on D Deck for something to eat when I ran into them on C Deck. They had just come from dinner, I think. Art was angry and a little drunk…" she glanced at Harold, "He's an aggressive person, but he's not typically abusive. Frank was furious. It happened fast; I bumped into them and then they were gone. I was so flummoxed I couldn't say anything…"

"Why didn't you come find me?" Charles asked.

"I _tried_ ," Lucy retorted. "But I was frightened and your door was locked and I didn't know what else to do."

The two lapsed into a tense silence, as if the presence of Arthur and Frank loomed over them like a dark cloud. Harold was quiet for an entirely different reason as he dismally studied the way Charles put a protective arm around Lucy's shoulders, the way _he_ should have comforted her when she very first entered his room. He barely recognized the people in front of him. They were practically strangers to one another, and never in his wildest dreams, did Harold imagine them doing something so convoluted and dishonest. It made him realize how little he knew about their lives, and how much closer they had been than he initially thought. Now he could laugh at the idea of Charles and Lucy having an affair. This, knowing that they willingly deceived him and ruined people's livelihood, almost seemed worse than the thought of them in bed together.

He felt what had been dragging him down for so long: grief, confusion, hate and anger. They pulled him back like a ball and chain, making any steps towards understanding and contentment tedious and hard. He was disappointed in Charles and Lucy, and he struggled to fit this revelation into their fraying lives. He couldn't believe that Charles would stoop so low as to deliberately embezzle from the very company that signed his checks, and he had never thought that Lucy would go along with it so eagerly. The line between hating what they had done and hating them was blurring.

They had been desperate, Harold reminded himself. Then again, when he reached that point of desperation, feeling like there was no way out, he did what needed to be done. He abandoned his family and fought for his future. Were they all that different, though? Charles and Lucy had chosen a completely different path than him, and yet they wound up in the same place. On _Titanic_ , pathetic and as lonely as ever before.

He glanced at Lucy, wondering why he pushed people away like he did. He did it purposefully too. He could feel himself turning mean in order to keep people at bay. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried to distance himself there was always something pushing him back, whether it be a ship docked at the right berth or the unseen hand of God. He didn't want to play a part in this ludicrous business between Lucy, Charles, Frank and Arthur, but he had asked, practically begged, to be included. He could turn them away and forget this night ever happened or he could accept the fact that he was tangled in their lies now. He didn't like it, but Charles and Lucy were in trouble and they had confided in him the very thing they had fought to keep secret for so long. Curiosity, responsibility, and what very little sense of self worth he had left, compelled him to keep talking. He wouldn't be surprised if he would come to regret this decision later.

"We need to go to the Master at Arms," Harold finally said. "There's been an assault. Frank and Arthur will be locked away until we reach New York. We can figure out what to do then."

"Haven't you been listening?" Charles replied, "It's not that simple. If we go to the Master at Arms two things could possibly happen. We confess that we've been enacting larceny for the last couple of years right under the nose of the White Star Line company, or we turn in Frank and Arthur and they do it for us. Either way the end result is the same: a cell block in the penitentiary with our names on it."

"Well then what do you propose we do?" Harold asked.

" _We_ won't do anything," Charles answered. "This is mine and Lucy's problem, not yours. It was bad enough we told you what we have."

Harold frowned. "That's not fair."

"He's right, Harry," Lucy said, "There isn't much you can do anyways."

Harold opened his mouth to protest but Charles quickly spoke over him with that gravelly voice of his. "As your commanding officer I'm going to tell you this once. Frank and Arthur are not to be trifled with and I refuse to let a junior officer get involved with my sordid affairs. I mean it, Harry. This isn't something you want to be a part of."

"But I do!" Harold growled. Even as he said it, he felt unsure.

There was a knock at the door and everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath. Lucy quietly backed up against the wall, pressing herself against the wood paneling as though she would be able to disappear into the furnishing all together. Charles' body went rigid and he slowly raised his head towards the door, the muscle in his jaw tightening the way it did so often. Harold glanced between Lucy and Charles and the door before slowly going towards it. He hesitated before twisting the handle and flinging the door open, every muscle in his body coiled like a tight spring ready to be released.

"For the love of God!" Harold snapped when he saw who was at his door. "James!"

The sixth officer stood in the corridor, rubbing his hands together for warmth. His nose and ears were pink from the cold, evidently fresh off his shift. A collective sigh of relief rippled around the room.

"Thought I might join you and Lights for a romp in the sack," James teased as he stepped into the room. His gaze landed on Lucy and he grinned. "This is what I call a much appreciated improvement. Four of us? Ambitious, though I'm not sure we'll all fit on the bed."

Harold scowled, Charles rolled his eyes, and Lucy's cheeks flared with an embarrassed blush.

"Only joking, of course," James added with a dimpled smirk.

"Now isn't the time James," Harold said.

"You're telling me? You're over ten minutes late for your shift. Will sent me to fetch you."

Harold inwardly groaned. With all the anarchy that had transpired in the last few hours, he had completely forgotten about his watch. He went the wardrobe and pulled out another undershirt to layer. He grabbed his uniform off the back of his chair and buttoned it up, quickly yanking on his shoes.

"So, what's all the hullabaloo about?" James asked as he watched Harold flit about the room gathering his things.

"What are you talking about?" Harold sighed, annoyed. He pulled on his great coat and searched for his gloves.

"You looked absolutely frazzled when you caught me in the corridor, I heard raised voices every time I came down the hall and I'm not even going to mention the washcloth stained with blood," James replied, pointing to the rag on Harold's desk. "Though by the looks of it, I'd say it's yours," he finished, nodding to Lucy in the corner. She covered her mouth with her hand.

Charles and Lucy exchanged alarmed glances. Harold didn't have time to worry about James's frighteningly keen intuition because this was the first time he had ever been late to a watch and he didn't want to have to explain himself to Will. He found his peaked cap and quickly slipped it over his head.

"You lot have got some explaining to do," James said with a sigh that told Harold that he was very pleased with himself. He sunk into the chair, crossed his legs and eagerly waited for someone to begin talking.

Harold shot Charles a meaningful look. Lucy still tucked herself away in the corner, arms wrapped around her body protectively. Harold hesitated, knowing that he should go to her. He should apologize for what he said, squeeze her hand and tell her that everything was going to be alright, but he couldn't with Charles and James in the room and he wouldn't know what to say. She glanced at him and he held her gaze, but she quickly turned away with a frown, still hurt from before.

He pulled open the door to his cabin and left, making his way towards the wheelhouse. It was up to Lucy and Charles whether they wanted to fill James in or not. They would resist, but James was persistent.

For the first time in his maritime career, he was glad for the long night shift ahead of him. The silence of the bridge would give him time to mull over everything that happened the last few days. It all seemed to make sense to him now. The riddles, the lies, the secrets. It came together like the jagged pieces of a puzzle, but the picture it created was not one Harold cared to look at. Charles and Lucy had all but ruined their lives with the decisions they had made and Harold felt like he was quickly spiraling down the same path, torn between helping his friends and doing the right thing.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

 **April 11th 1912**

"Lucy, _come on_!"

I ignored Violet's voice and stared at the paneled wall of our cabin. I listened as she went about the room getting ready, the electric bells ringing as passengers summoned us for the morning. The noise was a harsh reminder that even though my world seemed to stop turning last night, everyone else's was still in motion.

She growled, "Your _impossible_!" and I heard the door open and close with a meaningful bang.

I rolled over and sighed.

After Harry left last night, Charles told James everything. He seemed a little too excited to hear the story and Charles and I spent the last hour of the night stressing to him about how he couldn't repeat anything we told him, otherwise it would end very badly for all of us. James brushed it off and went to bed and Charles walked me back to my cabin at three in the morning, both of us worrying that Harry and James didn't understand, or didn't care, about the gravity of the situation.

I dragged myself out of bed and went to the vanity, almost happy I didn't get up with Violet. My eyes were blue and black from the lack of sleep I had over the last few days and my complexion was paler than normal. My lips were another problem. They were still a little swollen, especially the bottom one, and I picked at the chapped skin until a bell sounded on the opposite wall, loudly announcing that I was late. I turned and glared at the little devil on the switchboard. The red light under Mrs. Brown's room blinked once then turned off and the ringing stopped.

I went to the wardrobe and pulled out a new uniform, slipping it on. I tied the pinafore in a bow behind my back, crookedly, since Violet wasn't there to do it for me like we usually did. I grabbed my cap and shimmied under her bed to retrieve the lip stain I used the other night, with hopes that it would hide the dryness of my lips. It didn't. In fact, it made it look worse, but I didn't have time to wipe it off and try again.

I started down the corridor towards Mrs. Browns cabin, attempting to pin my cap as I walked, and praying that I didn't run into Cissie, Mr. Ismay, or Mr. Andrews, who I knew wouldn't be pleased in seeing a White Star Line employee as anything less than presentable.

I purposely kept my mind from straying towards two other men I prayed I wouldn't run into. Charles and I had decided to meet again later to talk and I knew if I let my mind wander down that dark path now, I would be lost. I couldn't afford to be lost. I had work to do and already I was no longer on Cissie's (or anyone else's for that matter) good graces. I had too many slipups in the beginning of this journey and we weren't even to Queenstown yet. I had to stay focused today.

I knocked on Mrs. Browns cabin and entered.

"Good morning Mrs. Brown," I said, trying to make my voice upbeat. It sounded more like I was trying to suppress a sneeze but thankfully the woman didn't seem to notice. I dipped in a curtsey.

"Mornin' Lucy," she said loudly, in that brash accent of hers. She stood over her bed in a dress robe, looking over two dresses that she had pulled from the armoire. One was of navy blue velvet and the other was a muted red with lace trim. "Which do you think?" she asked.

I stepped closer and pretended to consider the options. "The blue velvet, ma'am," I replied and she snatched it up.

"Right you are," she said cheerfully, as though I had solved her greatest crisis of the day. I probably had. She disappeared behind the screen to change and I looked down at the rust colored gown on the bed. My fingers brushed over the lace and I wished to wear something that elegant just for breakfast.

Mrs. Brown reappeared and turned so that I could do up the button on the back of the dress.

"Did you have a nice evenin'?"

"Hm?" I hummed. I still wasn't used to Mrs. Brown's quirky countenance and her blatant neglect for social norms. It was a nice relief not to be treated like a work horse, but none the less weird.

"You look like you had a loud night last night," Mrs. Brown replied and I caught her reflection in the looking glass. She smirked at me, one brow raised.

My cheeks burned.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Brown," I said through pressed lips.

She laughed, a deep rumbling thing that billowed up from her belly. I finished the buttons and she turned around, patting my cheeks with a warm hand.

"Oh, good golly damn, Lucy," she said light heartedly and moved to a brass jewelry box on top of the chest of drawers. As soon as her back was turned, I checked my own face in the mirror, brushing my fingers under my eyes and quickly tucking away a few wild strands of hair. "No need to get all flustered," she continued, "I was once your age. I remember kissin' and wakin' up the next morning with sore lips from his facial hair. What, or should I say who, caused the sleepless night?"

I straightened and looked at her evenly.

"No one worth getting excited about," I replied.

"A man?"

 _You could say that._

"Actually, it was my bunk mate," I said, "We're very close and we spent the night talking. As for the chapped lips…well, the sea air tends to dry them out and I've forgotten my vaseline."

Mrs. Brown looked unimpressed but didn't ask anything else. She pulled out a large diamond on a gold chain and matching earrings.

"What do you think?" she asked.

Alarm quickly flickered across my face, but I tempered it as best I could with a smile. "It's lovely," I said carefully, "But perhaps something more…appropriate for breakfast? The pearl earrings would go well with the velvet."

Mrs. Brown looked at the necklace in her hands. "No, I think I'll stick with the diamonds," she said and I inwardly cringed. No one ever wore diamonds before dinner, it wasn't becoming.

"But these?" I asked, stepping closer to the jewelry box and pulling out a pair of conservative onyx earrings.

Mrs. Brown looked them over. She pursed her lips in consideration.

"I suppose," she replied and took the earrings. In the end I talked her out of the diamond earrings and instead she wore the onyx but kept the necklace, which I wasn't sure was much better. Now she wore mismatched jewelry. The ladies a breakfast would have a field day but Mrs. Brown was set in her ways.

"Get my hat if you will, darlin,'" she asked as she pulled on her gloves. I did as I was told, helping her pin it to her head. She thanked me and left for breakfast so I could straighten up her cabin.

A few minutes later and I was wondering back down the corridor of B Deck towards the stewardesses pantry for some extra linens, requested by a valet in B 13. I opened the door and found Violet at the hotplate again.

"Miss Allen again?" I asked.

Violet shook her head. "No, Mrs. Bishop."

Helen Bishop was nineteen years old and traveling with her husband her a dog. They were in B 49.

"I think she might be pregnant," Violet continued. "She was sick this morning and requested some peppermint tea. Last night she asked if there was any saloop on board because she was craving something sweet."

I chucked at this and lowered myself onto a crate of coffee grounds, tea, saltines and shortbread with a sigh. I hadn't been awake very long but I was already exhausted. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes.

"So, are you going to tell me where you ran off to last night?"

I groaned out loud, tired of having to explain myself to everyone.

"No," I mumbled.

"Please?" Violet asked. "I heard you come in late—very late. And I thought I heard a man's voice? And I thought I heard you crying…"

My eyes snapped open and I looked at Violet who was gazing at me over her shoulder with those bourbon eyes of her. She looked concerned.

"Crying?" I said. "Couldn't have been me."

Another lie. I thought I had been quiet, using the wool blanket to stifle the noise, but apparently it wasn't enough. I was embarrassed to admit the tears; to admit that Arthur had frightened me enough to cry, to admit that I had been hurt by Harry's words, and to admit that I cared enough to be worried about my friend's safety. Their safety that _I_ had jeopardized. Last night, in the darkness of my room, I felt overwhelmed with everything—like if I didn't cry it out it would continue to build up inside me until it tore me to pieces. So I let the tears go until I fell asleep to hiccups.

God, I was such a git.

"Then where were you?"

"I was…out with Harry. Again."

"Oh?" Violet asked with that same teasing smile Mrs. Brown wore. The smile that hinted as though Violet knew something delicious and secretive was going on between me and Harry. They thought they had me figured out, thought they were so clever in thinking that I was having a go with one of the officers behinds everyone's back. But they were so wrong.

I let her think it though, since it was better than the truth.

I forced a smile.

"I suppose I was worried about nothing," I continued, "Harry and I, well, it's just like old times." Lie. "We spent the night talking about our childhood." Lie. "How much we missed home, and each other." Lie. "I can't believe I ever thought he wouldn't be glad to see me again." Lie, lie, lie! "Time just got away from us. We've had a lot of catching up to do and by the time we decided to call it a night, it was well past midnight."

Violet wore an expression that was torn between alarm and interest. "Did you…?"

"Kiss? Heaven's no! What kind of girl do you think I am?" I gave her a sly look.

She grinned. "Well, I suppose I could forgive you for sleeping in this morning then."

My smile vanished. "I'm sorry V," I said sincerely. "Really I am. I haven't been a very good friend this voyage, have I?"

Violet shrugged her shoulders. "I'm used to it," she replied, "You never were able to stay on task for very long. Always disappearing or getting distracted," she looked at me again and smiled.

There was no denial. No, 'Oh no Lucy, you're a dear friend!' or, 'It's quite alright! What are friends for after all?' Just point blank truth that struck me between the eyes. Violet was _used_ to me being a lousy friend. She wasn't miffed by my unreliability, she expected it, and was perfectly content to pick up my slack. I didn't reply, a little hurt by the truth behind her words, but vowing to try and be better.

The door to the stewardess's pantry opened and Mary burst in looked red faced. Her pinafore had an ugly brown stain on the front and she smelled something terrible.

"What on earth happened to you?" Violet asked.

Mary glared at me with vehement fire in her eyes. She pointed a finger at me.

"Caroline Bonnell was sea sick all over her cabin _and me_ this morning!" Mary practically shouted and I flinched. "And it's all your fault!"

I jumped to my feet. "My fault? She's your passenger! How could this possibly be my fault?"

"Will you two keep it down?" Violet hissed, "Someone will complain!"

Mary did not lower her voice and neither did I.

"You were supposed to stock the pantries with soda water! I had to run all the way to the main galley to fetch some and by the time I returned to Miss Bonnell's cabin, she had vomited all over the bed sheets!" Mary looked on the brink of tears. I scrunched my nose once I realized that the smell coming off her dress was Caroline Bonnell's breakfast. "Now I have an unhappy passenger, a soiled uniform and bed sheets to replace! You've cost me my tips Lucy Fairchild!"

"I have not!" I barked, "Cissie never asked me to stock the pantries! That was Mabel's job! How do you know she's not just pregnant?"

Mary let out a frustrated shriek. "Lucy Fairchild, you are dead to me!" She turned on her heel and left the small supply room, slamming the door closed after her. That was twice in one day I had a slammed door directed at me.

I looked at Violet. "I thought the blood vessel in her neck was going to pop. Too bad."

Violet did not think my joke was funny. In fact, she frowned at me.

"Did Cissie ask you to restock the supply closets?" she asked firmly.

I rolled my eyes. "I was busy! I didn't have time to!" I tried to reason. Violet shook her head and placed the tea cup on a saucer.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said softly, with a disappointed sigh. She left the pantry with the teacup in hand. I followed her out into the corridor.

"It's not my fault the women on this ship can't keep their food down!" I snapped after her. When she didn't react, I stomped my foot ill temperedly, but Violet had already disappeared down the starboard hall. I huffed and retrieved the extra linens from the pantry like I had intended to do an hour ago.

"You stupid girl!" I hissed at myself as I balanced the stack of extra blankets under one arm. Why did I have to go and ruin everything? It seemed I couldn't do anything right. I knew where I went wrong; that day Cissie found me on my way to meet Charles I should have made a detour to the galleys and done what I was told, but I didn't think about the repercussions of my actions. I did what felt right at the time. I never understood my mistakes until it was too late and I caused myself, or others, problems.

It was the same thing with Art and Frank and Charles. That morning in Liverpool I should have walked away when Charles offered me a chance of escape, but being the narrow minded girl I was, I ran with the fantasy of a better life and ended up making myself miserable. In retrospect, I could see all the times I did something wrong, but I just didn't have the common sense to know a bad thing before it happened. Perhaps I was gullible, or just unintelligent.

Harry had sense. He had sense enough to consider the options. He said so last night he wanted to help, but he still needed time to mull over his conscience. That was the difference between us. Harry considered the temperature of the water and the height of the fall, I just leapt before I could talk myself out of it.

And now I was underwater, fighting to come back to the surface.

I knocked on the cabin door of B 13. A valet answered and I handed him the blankets.

"About time," he snapped and closed the door. I turned and made my way towards the Hockley cabin, hoping to clean a bit before they came back from breakfast.

 _Harry_ , I thought. He had grown, physically, since Barsmouth, but he had his temper still. It was hard to ever imagine him without one, but I liked it. It reminded me of his younger self; passionate and clever, before he turned angry towards the world. I'm not sure what made him like that. We all had struggles. Charles married a woman with health complications then sold his soul trying to care for her and their children. I lived with a poor excuse for a father for eighteen years of my life with barely enough money to bridge the week. We didn't hate the world. We knew it was unfair, but we certainly weren't hard hearted about it like Harry was.

It wasn't my place to judge, I knew that. But sometimes, like last night, I missed the old Harry. He was wild and carefree and we got along then. I wasn't so sure we would ever go back to the way things were between us. Too much had changed.

I winced at that thought. I wanted it to be like before. If things had been different, then maybe last night would have been too. I thought about the way I had barged in on Harry. The image of him in his undershirt—for God's sake they should never make material that snug on a man's body—popped into my mind. Yes, under different circumstances, last night could have been a far cry from what it was.

I pulled out the master key and opened the door to B 52. The flowers were already beginning to wilt and I only put them in vases the day before. I sighed, fingering a forget-me-not that had its head lowered, feeling exactly like the flower.

I pulled the sheets back up on the bed and arranged the pillows in Mr. Hockley's room. Other than the unmade bed and the large safe in the wardrobe, it didn't look like anyone had spent the night in the room. There were no books on the bedside table, no tin of pomade on the dresser, no cologne sitting next to the vanity mirror. There was a black jewelry gift box sitting on the cedar chest that was at the foot of the bed. It was far too large to be a bracelet or a ring, and my curiosity got the better of me. I picked it up and opened the box. Resting on a pillow of satin was the largest blue diamond I had never seen. Perhaps it was a sapphire. Perhaps it was fake and made of glass. I wasn't sure, but I had never seen something so large and brilliant in all my years of service. I carefully ran my fingers along the diamond studded chain, remembering that, in another life, this necklace could pay for my retirement.

"What are you doing?"

I jumped and wheeled around. Mr. Hockley was standing in the doorway from his private promenade deck. The gift box in my hand slipped and clattered onto the chest face down.

"Mr. Hockley!" I gasped and his face contorted with quick anger.

"Be careful with that!" he snapped and moved towards me, picking up the necklace and carefully replacing it in the box. "That's worth more than you could hope to see in your short lifetime!"

"I'm sorry!" I sputtered, "I wasn't aware anyone was here!"

Mr. Hockley gingerly set the box down, like it was a sleeping babe instead of a piece of expensive jewelry. He straightened, and ran a hand over his hair to push back a lock of dark hair that had fallen free. He looked at me and I reeled back a few cautionary steps.

"What were you doing anyway?" he asked slowly.

"I was just admiring it," I stammered like a buffoon, "I didn't mean to snoop. It's a lovely necklace."

An eyebrow quirked. "You like it?" he asked.

"Y—yes?" I replied, unsure.

He nodded approvingly. "It took great lengths to get my hands on it. Do you think she'll like it?"

"Miss DeWitt Bukater, sir?" I asked and he nodded. I licked my raw lips. It seemed he wasn't cross with me, which I hoped meant that he wouldn't call the Master at Arms, but he seemed as though he was teetering on the edge. One wrong word and he'd remember that a stewardess was rummaging through his personal belongings. "I'm sure she'll love it," I answered, trying to keep him amiable. "Any woman would."

He nodded again. "Good, good," he replied. He didn't say anything else and I wasn't sure what to do with myself, so a waited. He glanced at me. "Well," he snapped, "Go finish. The ladies will be back from their Bridge game any minute."

He dismissed me with an irritable wave of his hand and I curtsied then flitted to the parlor room. I breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the fireplace mantel for support. Mr. Hockley was intimidating and I should have been more careful.

I straightened the pillows on the wingbacks and brushed the rug then went to Ruth's bedroom to do the same. I had just opened the drapes when the door to the cabin opened and I heard Mr. Hockley greet Rose and Ruth. I tried to finish so I wouldn't be in their way when they dressed for tea.

"And did you see that gaudy _thing_ around her neck?" Ruth said as she entered the room, completely ignoring my presence. Rose followed silently and I froze when I realized she was talking about Mrs. Brown. " _Diamonds_ at _breakfast_. What a tramp. At least make an effort to present yourself accordingly—Where's Trudy? That silly girl is never here when we need her. I told you we shouldn't have hired her but you insisted—And now we have to have afternoon tea with that woman. If we weren't dining with the architect and Mr. Ismay I would cancel. Excuse me?"

I stood at the window, staring dumbly at the promenade deck and the glittering slab of ocean that lay beyond it, hanging on every foul word that Ruth spoke. A surge of irritation welled inside me at Ruth's pettiness. Mrs. Brown was not atypical. She was more like Cissie. Loud, boisterous and a little unusual. But I felt the same way about her as I did Cissie. She was kind and more like a friend to me than I had ever considered a passenger could be. It was a little odd, but there was no harm in it. Ruth was the one that was tactless the way she gossiped about Mrs. Brown. I shall have to put a black mark her record for that.

I was so consumed with annoyance that it took a moment before I realized Ruth was talking to me.

I turned around slowly. "Ma'am?" I asked with a curtsey.

Ruth stared at me impatiently and Rose appeared from the changing screen in a spring green dress with lace sleeves. She regarded me coolly and I noted the way her lipstick was perfectly applied.

"If you're all finished here, you're dismissed," Ruth snapped.

 _Americans_ , I thought viciously.

"Right, yes ma'am," I said and turned to leave.

"Trudy!" Ruth called and I passed the ladies maid on my way out of the bedroom.

"There you are," Ruth said, "Help Rose with her dress. We'd like to be on time to tea, if you don't mind. God knows that Mrs. Brown will likely be late. Not a shred of dignity from that woman, I swear—"

"I think she's nice," I heard Rose say. Ruth said something back, but I was already at the cabin door and could no longer hear what they were saying. I glanced over my shoulder to see Mr. Hockey at the fireplace, watching me. I dipped then left the cabin before he could say anything.

In the hallway I drew a deep breath through my nose. That party was something like watching a circus. Mr. Hockey was the ring leader, that poor ladies maid Trudy was like the monkey they make jump through hoops. Ruth was the four hundred pound woman spectators gawked at, but not the reason they came to see the show for, and since she couldn't be the main attraction she did what she could to steal the spot light, if only for a few seconds. Rose was the tightrope walker. Delicate, quiet, and constantly trying to maintain a balancing act. I sighed. I was in the audience, watching, enthralled with the glamour and mystery of the show, and desperately wanting to be a part of it.

I shook my head, heading back to my berth cabin, knowing that in a few minutes someone's bell would ring and a light would blink to summon me. I was supposed to meet with the boys soon but after what Violet said, I wasn't sure I could pull myself away from work again. I didn't want to disappoint her anymore, and I certainly didn't want Cissie to find out I wasn't pulling my weight.

At least I was busy enough that I didn't have time to think about the issue that was really at stake: what were Charles and I going to do now that Arthur and Frank were on board? What were we going to do about James and Harry? And how long could we keep this mess under wraps?

* * *

Everyone underestimated Arthur McLoughlin, and he hated it. It was the good looks, he was certain of it. They saw his pretty face and assumed that there wasn't much more to him than a toothy smile and an expensive suit. They were wrong of course, all of them. He could be smart, if he wanted. He could be patient, if he needed to be. If people would just give him a chance to prove himself then they would all see.

He glanced up from his menu at the man across the table from him. Frank was the worst offender. He would like to see Frank try and woo a widower with a gambling debt into a game of cards, then walk away with twice as much money than when he started. Frank couldn't do anything but boss people around. He couldn't nick an earring off an old countess. He couldn't barter on the black market. He couldn't even tell Arthur how much that silver spoon he was stirring his tea with costs (twelve dollars and it would likely go up from there in a few years).

That was another thing about Arthur. He was good with numbers. _Titanic_ weighed over fifty thousand tons. Their tickets cost two hundred and fifteen dollars, and each and every last cent they had went into purchasing them. It took him eight minutes and thirty three seconds to piece together that Charles and Lucy had stolen their money and fled. It would cost him another two hundred dollars to replace Frank's sideboard of wine he had thrown over in his anger.

See? He wasn't just a pretty face.

He glanced across the Café Parisian at the center table. The master shipbuilder and the director of the White Star Line were dining with Caldon Hockley and his friends. His fiancée was sitting with them. She was a pretty little thing with a small mouth and curly hair, smoking boredly.

Arthur looked at Frank again. He leaned over his menu.

"I don't see why we don't get it now," he hissed. "They're all out of their cabin."

Frank's eyes roamed over the menu lazily. "Because if we get it now they'll report it to the Master at Arms and we'll have a real problem on our hands, won't we?" he said slowly, like he was talking to a child.

Arthur grit his teeth but sat back in his chair. He was right, Arthur had forgotten about that small detail. A waiter came around and Arthur ordered himself a bowl of _consomme fermier_ and some wine.

"You drink too much," Frank commented when they were alone again.

Arthur stared at him over the top of his wine glass as he took an extra long sip, just to irritate the man.

"I'm Irish, I can't help it," he replied, "What are we going to do now?"

"Nothing," Frank replied. "We carry on with the plan as normal."

"But—"

"Nothing," Frank said again, firmly. "You're lucky no one saw us the other night. Can you imagine if a passenger had wondered down the corridor the moment you hit Lucy? Jesus Christ, have some sense Art. She's a woman. She could have had us thrown off the ship at Queenstown."

"She stole from us."

"You mean the money we stole in the first place? The money that wasn't even ours?" Frank looked at him sharply and he leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of wine.

So Frank was still mad about the other night. Arthur couldn't help it. At one point he considered Lucy and Charles his friends. He even looked up to the calm, wise way Charles handled himself, thinking that maybe he had found a mentor of sorts. Someone who would give him a chance. And Lucy. She had always been a bit of a mistake but she meant well. She was a force to be reckoned with and while Arthur much preferred the subtle refinedness of a first class lady, she grew on him. He knew she had been infatuated with him, every woman was at some point, so he never expected to be double crossed by her. He knew if he had been there when she took the money he could have talked her out of it. It was Charles who should have been watched. That oaf was too smart for his own good, like Frank. Lucy would have never had the guts to do it if Charles wasn't there coaching her every move.

When he saw her in that empty corridor he was reminded that him and Frank were now destitute because of her and Charles. He felt betrayed by his own friends.

Arthur turned his spoon over, the polished handle catching the afternoon light.

"But she didn't," he remarked after a while.

"What?"

"She didn't say anything," Arthur replied. "We're still on this ship."

"I know. _She_ must have been using her brain. She knows that if she indicts us then she has no collateral to save her own skin. Charles too."

"Charlie's on the ship?"

Frank nodded. "I talked to the little stewardess that cleans our cabins. Nice girl, with a loose mouth if you tip her enough. She told me everything about what Charles and Lucy do on this ship." He wiped his mouth with his napkin then leaned over the round table. "Seems they thought they could give us the slip. We're lucky Hockley decided on _Titanic_."

Arthur nodded. "I want my money back, Frank."

"I know."

"Then what are we going to do?"

"I don't know."

Arthur frowned and Frank fixed him with a stare. "I need some time to think," Frank continued. "In the meantime, _don't_ do anything brash. We need to keep our heads down. Give me a day or two and hopefully when we dock in New York we'll walk away with Hockley's money and what's rightfully ours."

"And Lucy and Charlie?" Arthur asked, his voice hitching with excitement. He tried to seem indifferent, Frank would be irritated if he knew how eager Arthur was to see Lucy and Charles' retribution, but he was itching to give them what they deserved.

Frank didn't answer, the conversation forgotten. They had six days to come up with a plan. He was now watching Rose shove back her chair and exit the café, Mr. Ismay standing as she left. Arthur huffed and glanced around, his gaze landing on a young woman who was drinking tea with either a great aunt or a grandmother, he wasn't sure. He smiled at her. She looked away from him, her face a careful stone of passiveness, but her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Arthur grinned at himself. So he could do a lot of things, but his pretty face was easily his best asset. He probably should have thanked his parents more when they were alive.

"Come on," Frank said abruptly, pulling Arthur from his thoughts. He looked over to see Hockley leaving after his fiancée. Arthur pushed his chair back and two followed the Hockley's to the promenade deck.

* * *

 **Authors Note**

 **As per usual, thank you everyone for your continued support. I wish I had more time to update this story!**


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

 **April 11th 1912**

Charles sat in the officers smoke room, puffing on a cigarette. He was doing that a lot lately; smoking. He much preferred to relax in the company of some good brandy and his wife, but given the circumstances, that wasn't really a possibility at the moment. He flicked the ashes off into the tray on the coffee table in the middle of the lounge room. He glanced at the time.

He had arranged for Lucy, Harold and James to meet him in the smoke room for a few minutes before Harold's watch started. He wanted to make sure that Harold and James hadn't done anything rash in the last few hours that might detriment his and Lucy's reputations. He was worried about Harold. The fifth officer seemed to have a natural distaste for Charles from the moment he answered the summons at Liverpool. It went deeper than the fact that he and Lucy deceived Harold; the dislike seemed to be an underlying tension in every conversation they had. Charles wasn't sure what it was, and he certainly had no idea how to go about mending it. Harold likely would have said something to the captain last night if it wasn't for his loyalty to Lucy. Her presence, and his concern for her, was the only thing that kept Harold silent. Charles didn't know if it was enough.

James was a completely different story. The young man practically vibrated with excitement that something _so dramatic_ was happening on board _Titanic._ Charles was concerned for him for an entirely different reason. James was a gossip, and he could only keep a story this good under warps for so long. He was absolutely giddy about it, which put Charles on edge.

Charles sighed and snubbed out the cigarette a little more aggressively than he intended to. He had a good idea how this meeting would go: He and Lucy would try to convince Harold to keep their secret. Harold would resist because he hated being to what to do. James would make an inappropriate comment.

Yes, that sounded about right.

The door to the smoke room swung open and James sauntered in, grinning.

"Hello, Lights," he said cheerily. He was remarkable happy for a man who had been on watch since six, and who had been up the night before with stories of conmen and heiresses and missing cargo and police investigations.

By God, it sounded like something from a nickelodeon. It would have been embarrassing, if not so problematic.

"James," Charles greeted and the other officer sat down across from him. "Where's Harry?"

James shrugged.

As far as Charles could tell, James' admiration for him hadn't changed since the night before and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Before this whole mess unraveled, James' constant presence at his side was annoying—like a dog waiting to be tossed a bone—but now that James still felt some fondness towards him, even knowing that Charles was a liar and a cheat, was both endearing and guilt inducing. If James was looking up to him, then Charles wanted to make sure he was acting the way a role model should.

That was the thing though; James had put him on a pedestal long before he knew the entire truth. It wasn't fair to him or James.

Charles took a deep breath through his nose, frowning slightly and telling himself not to care. If James wanted to waste his energy idolizing an imperfect man, then he could. It wasn't no fault of his.

The door opened and Harold entered.

"Sorry lads," he said with that Welsh clip of his, "Stopped by the Marconi room to wish Jack a happy birthday, then the Captain requested some tea." He checked his watch. "Let's get this over with. We've only got a few minutes before Will or Joe come looking for me. Where's Lucy?"

"Probably still below decks with the passengers?" James chimed in.

A silent beat filled the room as the three men drew on the same conclusion.

"She isn't…in trouble, is she?" Harold asked slowly, looking at Charles.

He thought about the night before, seeing Lucy with a sore nose and mouth and drops of blood on her pinafore.

"I don't think so," Charles replied, "There's only so much damage Frank and Arthur can do while confined to a ship."

"Somehow that doesn't put me at ease," Harold said dryly.

"She's with the other stewardesses," James reminded them, "And she's among the passengers. They wouldn't do anything with witnesses around, would they?"

"No, they wouldn't. Not if it put them at risk," Charles replied, "They're careful."

"Then there you have it," James said.

"Do we start without her?" Harold asked.

"That might actually be best," Charles said and indicated for Harold to have a seat. He did as he was told, stiffly lowering himself into the leather seat. Charles sat forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Have you given any thought to last night?" he directed at Harold.

The fifth officer fixed him with a burning glare that had become regular over the course of the voyage, and that Charles had quickly learned to ignore.

"I have," Harold said, but offered nothing further. Typical. He was distancing himself, making it hard to know what was really going on in that young mind of his.

Charles sighed. "We're on the same team now Harry," he said, "You best start acting like it. An answer, sometime today, would be nice."

Harold facial features flickered with annoyance. "I said I thought about it, I never said I accepted it."

"Come awake," Charles snapped, "We know you won't abandon your friends and as far as I can tell, we're your _only_ friends. You're not the type of man to ignore something like this."

"No, I'm not," Harold replied, his tone surprisingly even but harsh, "But I'm also not the type of man to take a coward's way out of a bad situation, unlike you."

"Listen you," Charles growled, "You know nothing of the situation. This isn't some game. Either you help us or go to the Captain, but either way I need to know."

"You can't guilt me into helping you."

"I _know_."

"Alright you two," James interrupted and Charles looked at him. He had sunk down a few inches in his chair and spoke softly, "Enough with the lover's quarrel. This isn't helping anything," he looked at Harold. "You know my stance on the matter, now what's yours?"

Harold pursed his lips, glaring at the aubusson rug below their feet.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered after some minutes, taking off his peaked cap and running his fingers through his hair. He then scrubbed at his eyes, frustrated.

Charles sat back. He knew this wasn't an easy decision, but he also knew they didn't have time to sit around and wait for Harold to make up his mind.

James seemed to sense this, and turned to Charles.

"What are you and Lucy going to do?" he asked.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Charles muttered.

Actually, he had a thought. He needed to talk with Frank, alone. The two could have a sensible conversation, they had been close friends at one point, after all, without Lucy and Arthur getting in the way. They were too passionate and hot headed, like most young people, to try and negotiate, but Frank had a steady head on his shoulders. They may be able to come to some sort of agreement, given the chance.

He had no idea what was going on in Arthur's mind. Frank was intelligent and patient, but Arthur was a wild card. He was the one they really had to worry about. While Frank could sit and plot and think for hours, Arthur had a short fuse and an unpredictable temperament; not always violent, but always volatile. There was something wrong in his head, Charles was sure of it. The young man acted on a different stage than everyone else; a stage entirely his own.

Charles looked at Harold, who was frowning deeply. He looked at James, who was watching him carefully, earnestly. The two had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

"That day in Liverpool," Charles said and Harold's eyes slid up to his face, "Was uneventful. Frank had been bemoaning the fact that we needed one more person to complete our troupe. We had a face; Arthur, we had a brain; Frank, and we had a muscle; me, but we needed a voice. Someone unremarkable who could pass information along to us. I was at the White Star Line offices signing some papers before my leave and I saw Lucy. One of the secretaries turned her away and she left the office with tears in her eyes. I'd seen that same thing happen over and over in the some odd years I've worked for the company, but something about Lucy made me go after her. I suppose it was because she was everything we were looking for, naïve, plain and desperate. I knew it wouldn't take long to persuade her join our little operation."

Charles glanced at the two men. James looked like a little boy sitting at his mother's lap while she told him all about how she had fallen in love with his father. Harold looked pale and serious and Charles wondered if he knew any another other facial expressions. Charles swallowed and continued.

"It happened so easily. Lucy was eager and bold and excitable and she learned quickly. Frank was fond of her spirit and she was infatuated with Arthur. She fit in well with us but it was right around that time I realized my mistake. Lucy was lost and I had seen that moment of weakness in her a seized it. It was the same weakness I had when Frank first offered me a way out of my debts. I came to my senses and I knew I wanted out, but I also knew I couldn't rectify my actions without helping Lucy," he took a deep breath. Harold looked like he was ready to spring from his chair and strike Charles in the chest, so he hurried to explain himself, "She's been pushed around her entire existence. First by her father, then by me, then by Frank and now again by me. I wanted to help her, and I knew getting as far away from Frank and Arthur would do just that. Everything was working out perfectly until last night. I…I thought I had finally fixed my mistakes, but I suppose not."

Charles had been wanting to say that for a very long time. It felt good to finally admit to someone the guilt he felt for Lucy's fall. His own demise was his own fault, but he had sucked Lucy into a dangerous life that morning in Liverpool.

Harold watched him curiously.

"Lucy's accountable for her own mistakes," he said, "Not you."

"She wouldn't have _had_ those mistakes if it wasn't for me," Charles reminded him, "It's not self pity I'm looking at, it's responsibility for my actions and the repercussions they caused. It's being a man and owning up, something you lot have yet to learn."

James and Harold glanced at each other.

"I'm telling you this because I want you to know my side of the story," Charles said to Harold. "You should find time to talk with Lucy. Last night was chaotic and you were given a lot of information that was never supposed to reveal itself. Maybe hearing what Lucy has to say will give you another perspective and maybe then you can make your choice," Charles said, his blue grey eyes shifting to James. "You've already joined Lucy and I in the gutter and there's no going back now."

James looked slightly alarmed until he saw the smirk play on Charles' face. He grinned along with the senior officer.

"You should report for your watch, they'll be looking for you," Charles finished and Harold stood up, "Mull over it, but decide quickly Harry."

Harold made no indication that he heard him, but Charles knew that he did. He quietly left the smoke room.

Charles stared after the closed door. Harold had a lot to learn, still. He wasn't a young boy anymore but he still acted like it. All that emotion he kept locked up inside turned him bitter and temperamental like a teenager. If he was ever going to get past that anger he'd need to learn to trust others. A bit of humility and self sacrifice wouldn't hurt either.

Charles looked at James, who was smiling at him gently.

"Quite the speech, I'd say," he said, "How about lunch?"

Charles sighed. "Sure, James, how about lunch."

James flashed that devil may care smile of his and stood up, and Charles followed him to the mess hall thinking that, even if this were to disintegrate into misery and endless wo, at least one of them got a kick out of the whole situation.

* * *

Around eight or so there was a knock at our door and Violet and I shared looks of apprehension because, by Jove, we just wanted to sleep. It had been a busy day of requests from passengers and scrambling to fill those requests, and finding small moments in between to clean. Violet was stripped down to her chemise and was helping me loose the strings on my corset. We glanced at each other, both silently hoping that it wasn't Cissie at the door with another assignment for us.

"Just a moment," Violet called, pulling on her dressing robe and tying it closed at her neck. It was a plain cotton kimono, understated and modest, like everything else Violet owned. Back when we sailed on the _Olympic_ I asked her why she never bothered buying anything ornate, and she fed me one of those Christian answers about how money and clothing are worldly possessions and a thing that only the natural man craved. Then again, Violet had a pretty face. She could wear a burlap sack and no one would think twice with a face like hers. Unlike me, who needed all the help I could get.

Violet opened the door a crack and leaned her head out, leaving me to awkwardly hold up my uniform while I waited. I recognized Harry's voice and I inwardly groaned.

I had bypassed the meeting earlier today. He was likely here to reprimand me.

I moved toward the door, opening it a bit wider to peek my head around it.

"Hello Harry," I said. His gaze shifted to me.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

"No."

He gave me an annoyed look.

"Very well then," I sighed, "I'll need a minute to make myself decent, yeah?"

He nodded and I closed the door on him, turning to look at Violet. She gave me a bemused smirk.

"Oh, shut it," I snapped and turned around so she could relace my corset. I frowned. I was so close to throwing myself on my bed and sleeping like a sailor on leave.

"Just because I'm okay with your behavior doesn't mean I condone it," Violet clarified as she tugged the laces. I rolled my eyes. I was about to be lectured by Harry, I didn't need one from my bunkmate. "You know I would never say anything to the other girls, but…you need to be more cautious Lucy."

She did up the buttons on my dress and I turned to face her, taking her face in my hands.

"V, you've nothing to worry about," I reassured her. "Harry is a perfect gentleman and we only ever talk during our late-night rendezvous. If you're going to be upset about it, talk with the White Star Line company and their criminally long work hours. They're the reason we meet like this."

She gave an empty smile. "I'm not upset," she said, "Just confused, and I want you to be safe. Some of the victualing crew aboard talk…"

I gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I can take care of myself," I said, dropping my hands and tying my pinafore again. "Besides, adhering to gossip isn't very Christian like, is it?"

"Well not exactly, but—"

"Goodnight then," I said, cutting her off. I opened the door to Harry waiting patiently in the hall, and quickly slipped out before Violet could say another word. I was careful not to look back as I closed the door behind me, because I knew Violet would be giving me one of her disappointed motherly looks. I smiled at Harry. "Shall we?"

He nodded and lead the way down the corridor.

"Your friend didn't seem too happy with me," he said.

I shrugged. "It isn't you. It's everything," I said and waved a hand as though I could explain what 'everything' meant by vague indication. "It's everything, but it's mostly me. I just can't tell her what I need to and I think it's starting to affect our friendship."

Harry nodded and we walked in silence under the glow of the gimbal lamps. He led the way down the corridor to the crew passage, then up the stairs to the promenade decks.

"Why didn't you come today?" he asked.

"I've twenty or so cabins and passengers to look after, I'm sure you understand."

He nodded again and our conversation lulled again. I took a deep breath when we reached the open decks, realizing I had been down in the confines of the cabins all day. It felt good to inhale that sea air. The stars were out, winking bright against the black backdrop of night. Our breaths came out in little clouds of condensation, and the chill in the air seeped through my cotton dress. I should have grabbed a shawl before I left.

I looked at Harry, who was also gazing out over the horizon. My eyes traced the slope of his nose, the muscles in his jaw and his thick eyelashes and I smiled. Sometimes, I missed him so much it hurt, and to have him back made me so happy I felt like I would tear in two from the felicity inside. Either way, I suffered. I don't know if he felt the same way about me though. It seemed from the moment I walked back into his life I had caused nothing but trouble. Feeling eyes one him, Harry turned and looked at me.

I smiled.

"What?" he asked.

"Do you remember that May Day when George finally kissed Kitty McKinnon?" I asked and I saw Harry's mouth quirk with a smile.

George, like most of the boys in town his age, had his eyes on Kitty since they were in Sunday school together. She was a few years older than me, easily the prettiest thing in Barmouth, and George had been trying for years to get a kiss from her.

"I forgot about that night," Harry said slowly, "We were walking home and George couldn't stop grinning."

I remembered that May Day because that year Harriet Lowe made me a flower crown from willow branches, laced with may blossoms. She made them for her daughters every year and they were always beautiful. I had attempted to make one once, but my lack of patience and know how had resulted in a wilted mess. When Harriet gave me the one she made, I was so touched by her thoughtfulness that I had to fight tears. I pranced around the bonfires that night feeling like the Queen of England herself. The flower crown stayed looped around the headboard of my bed until the flowers turned brown and lost their pedals.

Harry had been running around with Tom Weller and Rodger Fritz, likely causing trouble, and my father spent most of the night at the cock fights, betting and drinking. When he passed out behind the church, I carried him home and dropped him onto his bed. I lingered long enough to remove his boots then returned to the festivities.

"I saw it, you know," I continued, "He kissed her at the maypole once the girls had finished tying off the ribbons. It was dark but I remember thinking that when I was old enough, I wanted to be kissed just like that."

Harry barked a laugh. "George had a knack for making people like him," he said, "Everything he did people approved of, but believe me, if he was kissing Kitty then he was so nervous there was nothing romantic about it."

It was a bitter night and most of the passengers were keeping warm below deck. A few seamen wandered around the forecastle, their shadows long under the low deck lights. I was grateful for the quiet night.

I grinned. "That was the year your mother made me a flower crown like your sisters," I voiced, "She was always thoughtful like that."

Thoughtful, motherly and creative. That was Harriet Lowe, who always tried to make me—tattered, skinny, useless, me—feel welcome in her grand home. Whenever I entered through the back door for Harry, something he told me time and time again not to do, I would sit in the kitchen for a few minutes and listen to her play piano. I watched her hands from around the corner, tapping over the keys rapidly like spider legs on the run. Harriet loved music and art and nature and anything beautiful. The Lowe household was such a stark contrast to the dark and dismal shack I called home; thick rugs, flowers in vases and the smell of bara brith baking. They were long distance memories of abandoned youth. Things I longed for as a girl and still do now.

"Yes, she was," Harold said, looking troubled.

"The morning after you left I went to the door to fetch you. I was excited about something. I think Mr. Walcott's mean old dog, the one that would chase me out of his garden, finally died and I wanted you to come pick raspberries with me. I walked into the house and your mother was sitting at the keys and when she saw me she started crying and hugging me and kissing me. I got so scared because it reminded me of George and I thought, for a moment, that something terrible happened to you. That you had…died."

I stopped at the rail and wrapped my hands around the cold steel, pain creeping up my forearms from the icy metal. Harry joined me. His features were difficult to make out in the light but I could feel the tension radiating off his body. I waited for him to say something, but he seemed to be retreating into himself like he did whenever I brought up our past. I glanced up at the stars, sighing. They blinked down, bright and watchful of us.

Silence filled the space between us that was far too wide, I noticed. Harry was keeping his distance and I wanted so badly to close it. A few steps and our shoulders would be touching. I could reach out and take his hand. I swallowed, and turned my attention to the black water churning below us, reminding myself the idea of us together was a far-fetched notion.

When he didn't say anything, I continued.

"When your mother told me what happened, I was so _confused_. I couldn't understand why you left your family, why you left _me_ , without so much as a goodbye," I felt the sting of tears and I pushed them aside. I was tired of crying; it seemed like that was all I did lately. I cleared my throat and went on, saying they very thing that had been on my mind since I saw Harry that first day on the boat deck. "You abandoned us. I lost my only friend that day. I just want to know why."

Harold looked at me, his gaze sad. "Please," he said quietly, "Don't make me answer that."

"I have to know," I pushed. I willed my legs to move and they obeyed as I took a step closer to him. "You're finally here with me again, but things are different now. We're different and I hate it. You're bitter and broken like the day of George's funeral and I'm lost and afraid and I just want to know that everything is going to be okay. That _we're_ going to be okay because even though you left, we've found each other again. That has to mean _something_."

The words tumble out of my mouth without thoughts attached. I barely recognize what I'm saying but they are things I've waited years to tell Harry. I manage to stop myself before six words escape and I'm left feeling embarrassed and unsure:

 _And I think I love you_.

I clutched the rail so tightly my knuckles turned white and my hands were numb. It felt like hours before Harry said anything.

"I can't give you a good reason," he finally said, his voice low. "I left because I was angry and scared. I never wrote because I felt like a coward. I thought that if I just put it all behind me and forgot, if I buried the past, then it wouldn't hurt so bad." He turned to face me, closing the distance between us. "I hate myself a little more every day for how I let George's death affect me. I hate that the best parts of my days are when I've forgotten that I ever had a brother that drowned. I hate that this pain in my chest is the only reminder that I'm alive and he's gone."

Harry swallowed thickly and leaned closer to me.

"I hate that my mother mourns two sons now. I hate that I can't look in the mirror without feeling some sort of despondency. I especially hate that I left the way I did. I was never meant to stay in Barmouth, but if I could, I would have done it all differently."

He reached his hand up, cupping it around the back of my neck and jaw, his thumb resting on my cheek.

My heart hammered wildly in my chest and I felt my body go stiff. I stared up at him, thinking that I should tell him. He was being open with me. This was a side of Harry that I had never seen before, and it was only fair that I should be honest with him. I wrapped my hand around his forearm, bringing him closer to me.

I never wanted to let go of him. I never wanted to lose him again.

"You make me remember," he said. "I spent years trying to forget and in a matter of days you've undone all my hard work."

A dry smile crosses his face and I felt myself grin. Before I could reply, another voice spoke.

"A nice night, isn't it?"

Harry and I jump, hastily moving away from each other and glancing around to find who had interrupted us. Frank and Arthur peeled themselves away from the shadows, Arthur grinning like he had a secret and Frank regarding us coolly. They stepped towards us.

"Hello Lucy," Frank said cordially, his gaze sliding to Harry in his officers uniform. He sized him up. "I think a proper introduction is in order?"

"No, it isn't," I managed out. My voice sounded much stronger than I felt. My heart was still fluttering, less out of anticipation but more out of fear.

He turned to Harry and held out his hand, "Frank Abernathy," he greeted.

"I know who you are," Harry growled, keeping his hands by his side and easily putting two and two together.

"Oh? Then she's told you," Frank said, looking at me again. I subconsciously reached my hand up, running my fingers along my cracked, bottom lip. The smug smirk on Arthur's face did not go unnoticed by me. "Well then," Frank continued, "That makes this far less awkward."

"What do you want?" I asked.

"We want what's owed to us," Arthur snapped and I sneered at him.

"Then you're wasting your time. We don't have it."

It was the first thing that came to mind and the words left my mouth before I could stop them. Another lie, splayed out before us as though it could protect me from Arthur and Frank. Instead, it only made things worse. Arthur's eyes widened slightly and he took a threatening step towards us. Usually, Frank would rein him in when he became aggressive, but this time he just watched. I shied back, but didn't get very far with the railing pressed against my back. Harry swiftly side stepped him, putting himself between me and Arthur. My eyes flickered to his face long enough to decipher that he was uncharacteristically calm.

Arthur looked at Harry wearily but did not step down.

"What have you done with the money?" Frank asked as though he was offering me a cube of sugar in my coffee.

"It's like she said, it isn't here," Harry answered for me.

Arthur's eyes narrowed at him. "Sounds to me like she's sucked you into her little games," he said, then turned to me. "Is that it, then? Got bored with us so you've moved onto another? Is he your lackey now?"

"Shove off, Art," I snapped, moving towards him. I wasn't sure what it was, but something was bringing out the fight in me. Perhaps it was Harry's six foot frame I was effectively using as a shield. I knew that I wanted payback for what Arthur did to me the night before. Harry lifted his hand in an attempt to keep me back.

Arthur looked back at Harry, smirking.

"Oi," he said, "She's got you believing her little lies, hasn't she? She's probably told you all sorts of wicked things we've done, but I'm sure she neglected to tell you everything _she's_ done." Arthur moved closer so that he and Harry were barley inches apart. "Our last con—the money she's been hiding—was from a little old lady aboard the _Oceanic_. She was a senile duchess and Lucy was assigned to clean her cabin. Poor old bird kept misplacing her valuables until she had nothing left and our pockets were full."

I glanced down at Harry's hands that were knotted into fists. Arthur was baiting him, looking for a fight like he always was, and it was working. Harry was losing himself. It was my turn to intervene. I wedged myself between the two men, holding Harry's fists in my hands and facing him so that he had to look down at me.

"Harry," I said firmly, "Forget it all, lets go back below decks."

His eyes met mine and I felt the muscles in his arms relax slightly.

"Yes," Arthur said behind me, "Run away and hide like you and Charlie do so well."

I shot a glare at him over my shoulder.

"She didn't tell you about us, did she?" Arthur continued addressing Harry. "Before you, it was me. I can't blame her though, something about the accent sends the women in a frenzy."

I closed my eyes against his words, preferring not to remember the times when Arthur had me giddy with infatuation. I kept my hands over Harry's fists, which were suddenly tense again and shaking slightly. I fought them down. Behind us, I heard Frank snort at Arthur's words.

"It was all very thrilling; the lies, constantly switching ports, the feeling of foreboding knowing that at many moment we could be sacked and arrested. I suppose once the novelty wore off she got bored and moved on. She'll do the same with you, pass you up like an old newspaper. I imagine it won't be long since I thought she had higher standards than the likes of—"

Harry wretched his hands free, pushed me aside, and lunged at Arthur, grabbing fistfuls of his dress shirt.

"Harry, don't!" I snapped, reaching for him. He released Arthur's shirt with one hand, drawing back a fist. I caught his elbow to keep him from giving Arthur a black eye. Arthur was grinning and ready. This was exactly what he wanted. If Harry hit him, then a quick complaint about passenger assault would send Harry's career as an officer careening into the gutter. Not to mention, Arthur had an odd fondness for self destruction. Hurting him would only give him satisfaction.

Harry seemed to realize this. He kept his arm poised and tense, but didn't release his fist. He glanced at me.

I looked at Frank. He usually acted as a voice of reason, but not tonight. He watched us with interest, waiting to see what would happen.

Harry turned back to Arthur.

"Stay away from us," he warned and Arthur gave him a leering smirk.

"Very well," Frank replied, "When we have our share of the money."

Harry slowly lowered his arm, the one I still had a vice grip on. He released Arthur's shirt.

Across the deck, coming from the stern, a woman screamed. High pitched, fearful and desperate.

All four heads swiveled that direction and another scream pierced the air.

"We should go," Frank said lowly to Arthur, looking towards the stern. Arthur nodded, and the two melted themselves back into the shadows. Harry and I watched them stride down the deck and out of sight.

Harry looked to me, full of alarm and relief and confusion and fear. "I'm sorry," I whispered because I couldn't think of what else to say. Without replying he turned towards the ladder to the lower deck and I followed close behind him, the gate clanking shut behind us. We moved fast towards the stern, where there was a commotion of shorts, a couple of quartermasters wrestling a third class passenger onto a desk bench. The passenger wasn't putting up much of a fight.

Another quartermaster was helping a woman to her feet and I gasped when I realized who the quivering girl was.

"Miss Dewitt Bukater?"


End file.
